


Aral Vorkosigan's Dog

by Philomytha



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Adventure, Feudalism, Friendship, Gen, Loyalty, Missing Scene, Spies, Time Period: Reign of Ezar Vorbarra, War, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-24
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 76,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illyan is assigned to watch Aral Vorkosigan during the Escobaran war. Soon he has to choose between his duty and his conscience, and the consequences rapidly get beyond him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With grateful thanks to my two betas: Tel, who spent a ridiculous amount of time batting this back and forth with me, removing plot holes, physical and logical impossibilities, canon inconsistency and melodrama, and Avantika, who read the whole thing twice in twenty-four hours and told me how to make it say what I wanted it to say. If there were any fandom medals, I'd be nominating them both.
> 
> There are a few places where I have taken lines directly from _Shards of Honor_. The title comes from a line at the end of the framing story of Borders of Infinity: "Aral Vorkosigan's Dog still had teeth." It seemed to fit the theme of this fic very well.

_"Damn! Captain Negri was right," said Illyan._

_"He usually is--what was the instance?"_

_"He said that permitting private judgements to turn my duty in the smallest matter would be just like getting a little bit pregnant--that the consequences would very soon get beyond me."_  
-Shards of Honor, chapter 8

***

Illyan leaned against the wall, arms folded. The damp icy wind seemed to find every gap in his greatcoat and penetrate to his bones, but he stood perfectly still. He would rather freeze out here than ask the Ministry of Political Education's guards to let him wait inside whilst they examined his papers.

The guards were taking as long as possible over the sheaf of documents he had given them. In the end they would have to give way, but the rats who worked here would spin out every opening for all it was worth. But not even they could deny the authority of a letter signed by the Emperor's own hand. At last one came out and handed the papers back to him.

"An escort will be along shortly."

Illyan nodded and resumed waiting, his posture completely neutral, concealing that he was both nervous and excited at what was to come. He had not yet had time to read all the reports on his new surveillance subject, and was searching through both his memories for every reference to him. The son of the great General and heir to a countship, his had seemed to be a charmed life, until the Solstice Massacre brought him down. Now he had been recalled from his apparently routine patrol duty, and the moment he had landed the Ministry had pounced on him and imprisoned him here on a treason charge.

All the young officers had admired and envied Admiral Vorkosigan. Watching his meteoric success, they had dared to hope. An admiral before forty! Vorkosigan's early captaincy may have had as much to do with his father's name as his skill, but not even the most envious could put the brilliant victory at Komarr down to nepotism. Working in ImpSec, Illyan knew that his chances of commanding a space fleet were limited, but even he could not wholly resist the dreams of glory. And then Vorkosigan had come crashing down. The mood among the young officers had been bleak for a long time after that.

Now Vorkosigan had fallen foul of the Ministry of Political Education again, but this time the Emperor himself was taking a hand in his future. With the Escobar invasion plans gathering momentum, despite his reservations Illyan could not help but wonder whether the Hero of Komarr would pull it off again.

It would depend, he supposed, on what he found here now. The rumours said Vorkosigan had taken to drink after his demotion. Older, darker rumours from his days at officers' training college echoed this. Vorkosigan had been a drunkard before, and had, or had friends who had, been in the habit of cornering cadets and young officers after hours and taking advantage of them. Alexander the Great, it was said, had been a drunkard and preferred men, but Illyan knew better than to draw the fallacious conclusion. Most likely he would find a broken man here in the cells. But even a broken man could be of use to the Emperor.

Two black-uniformed guards arrived with a third man following them.

"Ah, Simon," said the third man in warmly friendly tones. "It's been a while. I see you're doing well for yourself these days."

Illyan blinked, mentally erased nine years from the Political Officer and recognised Mikhail Radnov from the Emperor Dorca Memorial Military College.

"Mikhail," he said in polite answer, neither repulsing nor welcoming. He had not been close friends with Radnov, but they had often been thrown together during training, jockeying for top of their class in intelligence and security work, before they had gone their separate ways, Illyan to ImpSec and Radnov to the Ministry. For a while, Illyan had envied Radnov his more distinguished posting, but over the past decade the Ministry's star had waned, and ImpSec's had risen.

"I'm afraid before we go in I must ask you for your sidearms," Radnov said with an apologetic smile. "Can't violate the regs even for an old friend."

Illyan withdrew his stunner and nerve disruptor, checked the safety catches and passed them to the escorting guards hand-grip first with an ironic smile. Everyone knew that he would have other weapons concealed discreetly about his uniform; this was simply the Ministry's way of marking their territory.

"I'm sure you want to get out of this dreadful cold," Radnov continued. "I can't think why you were kept waiting around out here so long. I am sorry."

Radnov had always been a smooth talker. Illyan replied with equal smoothness, "Oh, it's colder than this where I grew up, you remember. It doesn't bother me."

"Of course, of course. Now do please come in and I'll show you down."

Despite Radnov's friendly overtures, Illyan knew he was on enemy territory as they entered the dimly lit corridors. At this hour there were few people about, no witnesses to his arrival. ImpSec's arm had a long reach, but in here he was on his own.

Neither of them made any reference to Illyan's mission here; Radnov presumably because losing their prisoner to ImpSec rankled, and Illyan because he knew that every word he said to Radnov was more data for the Ministry to analyse. Radnov went ahead to negotiate with the guards at the entrance to the prison area, who stared suspiciously at Illyan's Horus eyes. Illyan stared back, and they were admitted. One black-uniformed guard led them to a line of cell doors and stopped. Illyan waited again, tension curling up his spine, whilst the guard entered a code into the keypad. The door hissed open.

"It's your lucky day, sir," Radnov said to the man inside, a razor smile on his lips and fury in his eyes. "We're transferring you to ImpSec custody." There was a mere grunt in response.

Then Captain Vorkosigan emerged. Illyan had many of images of the man stored amongst the millions on his chip, but nonetheless surveyed him with a comprehensive look. Memories, no matter how sharp, could not replace the experience of the flesh. Captain Vorkosigan was shorter than Illyan had expected, thickset and dark, with a sardonic look in his eyes. He moved stiffly, limping, and Illyan's eyes narrowed, but he saw only old scars on Vorkosigan's skin. But then, the Ministry guards were experts at avoiding leaving marks. He noted the suspicion in case Negri wanted to gain some leverage in an already complicated situation by making a formal complaint.

Captain Vorkosigan ignored Radnov and focused on Illyan. Despite himself Illyan quailed a little under his intense gaze. Even in his ill-fitting prisoner's jumpsuit Vorkosigan radiated power and strength. No broken man this. Vorkosigan gave him a curt nod but did not speak.

"This," Radnov said, still smiling, "is my old classmate Simon. He's going to take you off to ImpSec." Radnov looked at Illyan. "The question is, have you got this job as a reward or a punishment?"

"I really couldn't say," Illyan retorted. "Shall we go?"

The cell door hissed closed again, the escorting guards took up stations on either side of Captain Vorkosigan, and Radnov waved Illyan to his side as they retreated up the stairs to the ground level and through to the gatehouse.

"We must catch up properly sometime soon," Radnov said. "It's been far too long. This inter-departmental rivalry only adds spice to friendship, don't you think?"

"Just so," Illyan said. "Well, you know where to find me."

One of the guards returned his weapons, Radnov clapped Illyan on the shoulder in farewell, and he was left alone with Captain Vorkosigan.

"I'm taking you to ImpSec headquarters, sir," he said. "You'll stay there tonight. I believe there will be further decisions taken in the morning."

Vorkosigan only nodded. He sat quietly in the groundcar and Illyan got in beside him. As the driver pulled away, Illyan relaxed a fraction. The hard part was over now. He kept one eye on Captain Vorkosigan, trying to discern what he could of his new assignment, but Vorkosigan's face was unreadable, set and blank.

Illyan considered Radnov's teasing question. Why had he been assigned this duty? The Ministry had charged Vorkosigan with treason, but surely if that were a true charge, Negri would have left him imprisoned. He ran over the few words Negri had said to him before dispatching him with a sheaf of papers to the Ministry. _Take these. Get Lord Vorkosigan out of Grishnov's dirty paws, and bring him back here. You'll be watching him until further notice. Try not to antagonise him, we need his co-operation._ It sounded like Vorkosigan was an ally. Of course, Negri had no compunction about spying on allies as well as enemies, but so openly? The imaginary plots in Illyan's head grew more and more arcane as they drove.

They sat in uncomfortable silence until the car pulled up at the side entrance to ImpSec. There Illyan got out and opened the other door for Captain Vorkosigan. Vorkosigan winced as he pushed himself to his feet, and Illyan automatically put out a hand to help him out. Vorkosigan ignored it and straightened himself out stiffly. His eyes crossed Illyan's, and the unconcealed hostility on his face made Illyan flinch even as his chip began to fast-forward through the last half-hour, looking for some explanation.

They were admitted without question into the ugly building. There was a brief delay whilst Illyan sent his weapons down to the armoury for inspection, requested a new set, checked and holstered them. The Ministry probably hadn't bothered to tamper with the old ones whilst they were out of his sight, but Illyan didn't take risks like that. Then they proceeded into the depths of HQ, not to Yuri's infamous dungeons but to the new protected witness apartments. A door opened at a touch of Illyan's palm, revealing a handsome modern room, small but not uncomfortable.

"Please ask for anything you need, sir," Illyan said quietly, trying to build bridges with the Captain. "I believe your uniforms and so on have already been delivered. Er--would you like to see a medic?"

"I'm fine." Vorkosigan turned away and sat down in an armchair in a clear attitude of dismissal.

"I will call for you tomorrow," Illyan continued. Vorkosigan made no reply. Unable to think of anything more to say, Illyan left. He returned to his office with a feeling of deep unease. It seemed he had done something to antagonise Vorkosigan already. Surely he could not be angry at being removed from Grishnov's custody? Negri had sent Illyan to fetch him with the intent of starting him off in Vorkosigan's good books. What had gone wrong?

He filed a brief report of Vorkosigan's arrival, opened up his comconsole, and found that the full ImpSec file on Lord Vorkosigan had finally been delivered. Perhaps here he would find clues, either for Vorkosigan's unfriendly behaviour or the reason for this assignment. He settled down to read.

Although Illyan could store away the contents of a page at a single glance, it was two in the morning before he finished reading and digesting Lord Vorkosigan's file. Understanding had filled him as soon as he saw mention of Radnov's name in the most recent reports, the leader of a mutiny against Captain Vorkosigan. Radnov had always been a subtle bastard. Being manipulated by him made Illyan's teeth clench. He had no doubt that this result was precisely what Radnov had intended.

*

The following morning, Illyan was unsurprised to learn that his first orders were to escort Captain Vorkosigan to the Imperial Residence for an audience with the Emperor. Whatever was going on with Vorkosigan's imprisonment and release, there was no doubt that the Emperor was pulling the strings. They entered the Emperor's private office and found Ezar with Captain Negri waiting for them. Captain Vorkosigan went to stand at parade rest in front of the desk, and Illyan took up his habitual recording stance a little to one side, mirroring Negri's position behind the Emperor. Neither of them were invited to sit.

"You seem to have a talent for trouble, Captain," Ezar said. "Not only has your arrest caused me quite a lot of difficulty with my Ministers, it appears your blundering about has given Beta, and by implication Escobar, a completely unnecessary advantage in our manoeuvring."

"Might be worth it if it means we don't get landed with that crazy invasion proposal," Vorkosigan growled. Ezar's thin lips pursed, concealing what emotion not even Illyan could tell for certain.

"You'll have to try a bit harder for that," he said. "Now, I have seen Negri's agent's report on the whole mess, and I find the treason charge specious."

"More than that," said Vorkosigan at once. "I have enough evidence against Radnov and his friends to bring them all down."

"And cause me yet more bother with Grishnov?" Ezar returned. "How will this be of any use to me?"

Illyan knew at that moment that Vorkosigan would be permitted to pursue his charges, and he saw from the slight change of Negri's expression that he realised it too. The Emperor was asking to be convinced.

Vorkosigan obliged him. "I suspect Grishnov may have been behind the mutiny, though I don't have a great deal of evidence. But it might be something you can hold over him, perhaps even divide him from the Minister of War, since he won't take kindly to Grishnov interfering in the military order. And it cannot be harmful for a just emperor to see justice done."

Illyan froze at the pointed inflection of that last sentence, but Ezar only chuckled.

"Very well, Lord Vorkosigan. I will give you another opportunity to hang yourself. But I must give a sop to Grishnov, at least until the end of the various trials and inquiries which I am sure shall follow soon. You are officially under suspicion, and so you must be guarded. The Ministry being out of the question, you shall be under the guardianship of ImpSec and will enjoy their hospitality until further notice. Further, Negri has offered me Lieutenant Illyan here to attach himself to you and, ah, monitor what you do. He will report to Negri alone."

Illyan made a little bow as Ezar gestured to him. Was this the explanation for his new assignment? Just a cover to keep Grishnov happy? Surely any agent could have been used for that; why waste his special talents on a dummy assignment? Nothing was making sense.

Vorkosigan threw him a look of unmistakeable dislike. "Him?"

"You will cooperate in this," said Ezar, and there was a flicker of anger in his voice that made Vorkosigan grunt his assent.

"Better than that Ministry cell, I suppose."

"Indeed. Also better than the execution platform in the Great Square. Thank you, Lord Vorkosigan. I have no doubt I shall see you again soon."

Both he and Illyan made their bows to the emperor and departed the office. In the corridor, Vorkosigan turned to him and gave him a searching gaze.

"I don't like spies," he ground out. "But it seems I can't be rid of you. Very well. But I will not have you watching me behind my back. If you've got to follow me around everywhere, you'll do it publicly. I give you my word as Vorkosigan I will not attempt to meet with anyone, speak with anyone, without your presence."

Admiral Vorkosigan's word. Illyan felt a shiver go down his spine.

"As you wish, sir," he said, his bland voice giving nothing away.

Vorkosigan looked him up and down and finally gave a nod, of acquiescence rather than approval, turned and began to stride away. Illyan followed. Dummy assignment or not, it was going to be uncomfortable work.

*

Later that day, Count Vorkosigan arrived at ImpSec HQ to meet with his son.

"Well, you're up to your neck in crap, aren't you, boy," he said trenchantly as he entered. "How could you let your men mutiny under you? Were you soused the whole time, or what?"

Vorkosigan rose to attention as if a superior officer had arrived, and Illyan, already standing, tried to fade discreetly backwards. The Count looked at him. "Who's this?"

"Negri's appointed babysitter," Vorkosigan said. "He has to stay." He gave Illyan a look that on any other man would have been almost sullen, but nonetheless came out as fierce.

The Count gave a grunt and turned back to his son. "The question is, when are you going to get your head out of your ass?"

"Ezar has given me permission to press charges against my political officer," Vorkosigan said. "And if I can see a shot at Grishnov, I'll take that too."

The Count gave Vorkosigan a hard look and then went to sit in the single armchair in the room. "Right," he said. "You weren't drunk."

"No, sir. It was a set-up. Grishnov planned it. He's trying to finish us off, sir."

"Ha." The Count's lip curled. "Grishnov's an amateur. Quite a bright one, but an amateur. All right. I've been feeling around, and the short and dirty version is this: if I pull too many strings right now the entire Council will call it a Vorkosigan power-grab and it'll give Grishnov more help even with you attacking him. The best I can do for you is to get you a private hearing. It'll be a panel of Auditors, Generals, Ministers and Counts. Some of them will be ours, some will be Grishnov's and a few will be neutral. You'll get to make your case, explain that fiasco, and assuming you manage to keep hold of your temper it should be all right. Worst case, you'll be back to Kyril Island for a bit."

Captain Vorkosigan gave a snort. "Won't that be fun. I expect they threw a party when I left before."

They had. It was in his file. Illyan didn't let his expression change, but the Count threw him a sharp look anyway.

"Negri tells me you met a woman," the Count said after a moment.

Vorkosigan made a low, angry sound in his throat. "Do you always pump Negri for details of my personal life?"

"Only since you stopped telling me anything about it. Where'd she go?"

"Back to Beta Colony. I don't want to talk about it."

They stared at each other for a moment, and Illyan felt like he'd been caught between a pair of practised duellists. Finally the Count said, "Very well. If you follow my lead, you'll get your hearing. How it turns out will be up to you."

*

"... and so I maintain, my lords, that this was an act of simple mutiny." Vorkosigan closed his mouth and stood to attention, rigid and motionless.

The quorum of nine sat in a row behind their long table, listening. Illyan was standing silently against the wall, Ezar's vid recorder at this private hearing, a more usual job for him than following a disgraced officer around.

"Thank you, Captain Vorkosigan," said Lord Auditor Vorparadijs, who was representing the Emperor on the quorum. "Please wait outside."

Illyan followed Vorkosigan and Lieutenant Radnov out to the antechamber, where they all stood in silence. Illyan stared out the window at the river and the city beyond, and wondered how things were going to go. Memories of the past week popped up in his head like bubbles: drinks with this count or minister, confidential discussions with another, hours of listening to a third give his opinion on every military topic imaginable before Vorkosigan could get a word in edgewise to explain his situation. Illyan had stood silent and still at the edge of perception, as unnoticeable as a servant, and Vorkosigan had studiously ignored him.

But Vorkosigan had given Illyan a shock in his speeches to the panel. He had read in the files that Vorkosigan was not afraid to speak bluntly to the most powerful of the ministers or even to the Emperor himself, but it was one thing to read about this behaviour, and quite another to hear Vorkosigan's quiet voice carrying his deadly words around the small chamber. The only person Illyan was sure had enjoyed the show was the young Count Vorvayne, one of the representatives of the Council of Counts on the panel, and Vorkosigan's sure ally.

They waited twenty-two minutes by Illyan's chip before the chamberlain opened the door. Even Illyan felt a little of the tension, though he would be outside the splatter zone however the panel voted. Vorkosigan and Radnov stood some distance apart facing the table, Illyan behind Vorkosigan and a little to one side, so he could see his face.

Vorparadijs rapped the table with his sword-hilt.

"It is the finding of this panel," he announced, "that Lieutenant Mikhail Radnov should be taken to a military court and there charged with mutiny against the captain of his ship."

Illyan glanced at Radnov's face. He was impassive. Vorkosigan seemed to be striving for a similarly deadpan expression, but he could not quite conceal the gleam in his eyes. Illyan watched him meditatively. Perhaps this verdict would mean that he would be released from this duty. He had no particular animosity towards Vorkosigan, despite the dismissive treatment he had received. Illyan was well used to spying on far more hostile subjects. But with the Escobar invasion coming up, there must be some posting more suited to an ambitious officer.

"We also recommend," Vorparadijs went on, "that a full investigation be launched into the circumstances of the escape of the Betan prisoners."

That made sense, Illyan thought. Vorkosigan had been rather too closely involved with the Betan commander for his story to be taken at face value, and their escape had been little short of a disaster for the invasion plans.

"You are dismissed."

Two military policemen entered and escorted Radnov out. Illyan and Vorkosigan followed. In the antechamber, Vorkosigan bent to organise his papers.

"My congratulations, sir," Illyan said quietly as Vorkosigan glanced at him. Vorkosigan gave a grunt in acknowledgement, his attention focused beyond Illyan's shoulder on a man approaching. Count Vorvayne with his own congratulations, judging from his enthusiastic support for Vorkosigan's case. From his ImpSec reports Illyan knew that Vorvayne had recently had troubles of his own with the Ministry of Political Education. Not that Illyan had mentioned this to Vorkosigan. He was here as a spy, after all, not a source of free intelligence. But Vorkosigan had proved to be more than competent with his politicking even without Illyan's advice.

"That went well," Vorvayne was saying with a grin. "Count Vormoncrief was a bit sticky, but the generals were with you all the way. I won't forget this."

Vorkosigan gave the young count a flashing smile, but a more wary expression immediately fell back over his face. "It's a step in the right direction, but I'm not going to celebrate until I see how Grishnov handles it. There are still moves he could make."

"Aren't there always. But you've got your man for sure. To think he hoped to get away with mutiny!"

The Prime Minister, Count Vortala, approached them. He had not been on the panel, but had been keenly interested in the outcome. He gave Vorkosigan a small nod of approval, leaning forward on his stick. Count Vorvayne bowed and stepped back a little, watching but not intruding.

"So," Vortala said, "what do you have in store for us next?"

"I'm not sure what will happen with the business about the Betans," Vorkosigan said slowly. "But I think I could nail Grishnov too, if I play this right. He's gone too far in this."

"You had a better majority than I might have expected," Vortala observed obliquely.

"The case was airtight." Vorkosigan paused. "I know Grishnov put Radnov up to it."

Vorvayne's eyes widened. Illyan carefully prevented himself from sitting up straight at this declaration. He listened with his full attention.

"If you want to make that case, it'll have to be more than airtight," Vortala replied, but he did not look surprised at the statement.

"Didn't Grishnov say…" Vorvayne began uncertainly. "When he gave his evidence to the panel. Something about orders. Sounded dodgy to me." His brow furrowed.

Vortala raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Yes?"

The memory sparked from Illyan's chip, and he supplied it automatically.

"Minister Grishnov said that 'all Political Officers have standing orders to assume command when they suspect the commanding officer of a serious crime'." Illyan automatically echoed the tone and inflection of Grishnov's voice as he repeated the words, and all three men stared for a moment at him.

"Yes, thanks, that was it," Vorvayne said cheerfully, ignoring Vorkosigan's scowl. "Standing orders for mutiny, on nothing but the PO's own judgement. You can see why Grishnov spends so much time keeping the Political Officer system separate from the regular military, it undermines us at every step. I don't think the Staff is going to be too happy about all this."

"Indeed not. But it's quite a leap from that to explicit individual orders." Vortala gave a nod. "I'm sure you'll have an interesting time ahead, Lord Vorkosigan." He straightened stiffly and limped away. Vorvayne also made a move to go.

"Let me know if I can help," he said, with a final triumphant grin. Vorkosigan nodded and picked up his files. Illyan reached out to carry them, and received a scowl.

"You pay very close attention to 'Minister Grishnov'." His tone was dangerous.

Illyan looked blankly at him and said nothing, and after a moment of eyeing each other Vorkosigan dumped the files into his arms.

"Spies," Vorkosigan muttered to himself as he began to stride out of the chamber. "Always hanging on my coat-tails."


	2. Chapter 2

Illyan followed Captain Vorkosigan into a handsomely appointed conference chamber, one Illyan had not seen before. The walls were hung with green silk tapestries, the trim a contrasting gold. Inside sat the Emperor and Captain Negri. There was a pile of unmarked files on the table before them, all closed. Both Vorkosigan and Illyan made formal salutes and stood to attention, Vorkosigan facing the Emperor across his desk, Illyan to one side, watching and listening.

"Lord Vorkosigan. You cause more trouble every day. Minister Grishnov is more upset than I have ever seen him before, and I have been put to a great deal of work to smooth his feathers."

"Yes, sire." Vorkosigan looked a little smug. "He did give Radnov those orders, I think it is clear."

"Clear to you, perhaps. But you have had your blood. Now I will have a ceasefire. I request and require you to drop it now."

"But--" Negri's eyes crossed Vorkosigan's, and he closed his mouth. "Yes, sire." Illyan replayed the way Negri had managed that. Something to practice.

"What about the treason accusation?" Vorkosigan asked after a silence. "I have the right to defend myself against it."

"That must wait. I have used up my credit with Grishnov for the present." Ezar looked at Illyan suddenly, and Illyan tensed. "In the meantime, you may return home. Lieutenant Illyan will see to it that you cause no more trouble."

Vorkosigan's face darkened as he too glanced at Illyan. "I thought he was only for this inquiry."

"Lieutenant Illyan serves me and will watch you as long as I require."

"Sire. If you really suspect me of treason, then have me arrested. Execute me, even. But don't make me hang in limbo with your ImpSec puppy following me around all day."

Negri now looked at Illyan, and the rebuke in his eyes was clear. Illyan heard his voice again, perfectly preserved on his chip. _You must make peace with this man. Do not give him cause for anger against you._ But Illyan could not see that he had given him any such cause. Vorkosigan would most likely have reacted the same way to any ImpSec agent. Negri, of course, would point out that he was not just any ImpSec agent.

"It is necessary. You are in limbo, Lord Vorkosigan. I understand, however, that limbo is not eternal."

Vorkosigan scowled and said nothing.

"I have more to say to you on that topic now. Thank you, Lieutenant. Please wait outside."

Illyan went out. What was the Emperor going to say to Captain Vorkosigan that he didn't want recorded in his private data bank? He leaned against the panelled wall and waited.

It was early evening when the door at last opened. Illyan rose from the bench he had seated himself on and came to attention. Captain Vorkosigan emerged alone and grim-faced. He jerked his head to Illyan but said nothing as he marched double-time down the corridor, Illyan hastening in his wake. Curiosity was the besetting sin of any intelligence agent, but Illyan had enough sense of self-preservation to refrain from enquiring about the meeting. Vorkosigan looked ready to shoot the first person to cross him. He stormed through the palace leaving a trail of offended security guards and servants behind him. Illyan tried to offer placating glances and gestures to the men and women he knocked off balance or ignored, but it was of little use. At last they reached the exit.

"I'm walking home," said Vorkosigan, the first words he had spoken. Illyan nodded. Perhaps the exertion would help work off whatever had made Vorkosigan so furious. Meetings with Negri and the Emperor could be unsettling, he knew full well, but Vorkosigan's mood was more than that. Replaying his memory of Vorkosigan's face as he emerged from the meeting room, Illyan recognised anger, misery and shame in his expression. Was this something to do with the treason charge? Or had Ezar been amusing himself by tweaking Vorkosigan's chain?

They set off through the snowy streets of Vorbarr Sultana, still at the same unrelenting pace. Vorkosigan charged around slower pedestrians and dashed between ground-cars with total disregard for his own life. Illyan swallowed his protests and followed hard at Vorkosigan's heel. He had not expected to be risking his life in watching Vorkosigan, but his instincts warned him that attempting to restrain the man from his near-suicidal behaviour would be as dangerous as the speeding ground-cars. Some of the closer calls made Illyan wonder if Vorkosigan was trying to get him killed. He could scarcely have done better himself if he'd been trying to shake off a tail.

It was not easy to keep alert in these conditions, but Illyan managed to scan the surroundings every few moments for danger. Hopefully Ezar's cease-fire would make Grishnov pull in his horns, but there were hundreds of ways to get into trouble in the streets of Vorbarr Sultana, if you were a Vor lord walking alone. Of course, there would be some outer perimeter guard who ought to keep trouble away, but Illyan had not survived almost ten years in ImpSec by relying on his outer perimeter.

Finally Vorkosigan left the main roads and plunged into an alley. The noise of the ground-cars grew muffled behind them as they turned a corner, and the tall close-packed buildings blocked the last of the winter light. Consulting his chip, Illyan realised this was meant to be a shortcut to Vorkosigan House, which was in the old part of the city. It was not a route he had travelled before, so he searched for more data about it in his head, but could find nothing except some details of the old bomb shelters and underground passageways constructed during the wars against the Cetagandans. All these streets were tunnelled and there were entrances at every junction. He spotted one as they passed a darkened tavern, nothing more than a trapdoor in the pavement.

Abruptly Illyan's attention was drawn by movement in the corner of his eye. He reacted even before his conscious mind recognised what it was, whirling, drawing his nerve disruptor and taking aim as he jerked Vorkosigan aside. A disruptor beam crackled across where they had been standing a moment before. Illyan fired, and the attacker dropped.

"Take cover!" Illyan yelled as another beam hissed through the air. Vorkosigan ducked into a doorway, drawing his plasma arc and returning fire. Ducking and dodging, Illyan covered his retreat and brought down another of their attackers. Something exploded nearby and shrapnel ricocheted around. Illyan felt a burst of pain in his left arm as he turned. He ignored it. A second later he was in the doorway with Vorkosigan. Vorkosigan was scowling and pressing buttons on his wrist comm.

"Shit. No response. Something's jamming us."

Illyan tried his own, but had no more success. He pressed the panic button, which would send out a homing signal at dedicated ImpSec frequencies. But it would be some time before even the swiftest ImpSec flying squad could get to them, maybe five minutes. He doubted they had that.

"What happened to your fucking outer perimeter?" Vorkosigan demanded. Illyan flicked back to the memory of a few seconds ago and recognised the face of the first man he had shot.

"I'm afraid he's part of the problem."

" _ImpSec._ " Vorkosigan's tone made the name a swear word. Illyan was inclined to agree. He'd thought Iackowitz was a reliable agent. Why was he shooting at them now? Heads were going to roll for this... assuming they survived long enough to report back.

A plasma beam streaked across their doorway and set light to the wooden frame of the bay window of the house, sending molten glass into the street and diverting Illyan's thoughts from the broader tactical situation to the present problem. They wouldn't be able to stay here much longer. Risking a glance, Illyan could see four men standing in the road ahead, and two fallen where he had shot them. From the other direction more were approaching.

"Got to move," he said, and his eye fell on the trapdoor entrance to the bomb shelters, blessedly close. He pointed to it. "In there. I can give you a minute of diversion. The trapdoor should be lockable from the inside."

Vorkosigan looked dubiously at the manhole and at Illyan. Another blast of fire hissed past their doorway. He nodded. Illyan reached into his holster, took out his stunner and began to work on its power pack. Observing his movements Vorkosigan grinned. Here in mortal peril with men shooting at him, his grim humour had melted and he looked more alive and happy than he had since Illyan had met him.

A moment later, Illyan gave a nod, stepped out of the doorway and threw the adapted power pack at the men ahead. As he did so he ducked back and whirled around, opening fire on the men from the other side. The improvised grenade exploded spectacularly and for a moment the street was filled with dust and smoke. Vorkosigan raced to the trapdoor and began to work it open.

Illyan kept one eye on him as he shot bolt after bolt at the men behind. Two fell, but the others were charging towards him now. The smoke was clearing. Vorkosigan had wrenched the trapdoor open. Illyan dashed towards him and reached the hole as Vorkosigan dropped inside. He hurled himself in immediately behind, a disruptor beam searing the air above his head, fell hard on the ground and rolled clear, his injured arm now screaming protest. Vorkosigan slammed the trapdoor shut and bolted it. All light vanished.

Illyan picked himself up, dizzy from the fall and the disorientation of sudden darkness. His arm throbbed wetly. From above came shouts and then running footsteps.

"Got to keep moving," he said. He replayed the fall on his chip to orient himself, and pulled out his handlight. The tunnels were damp and slippery, but at least they were out of the wind. He pulled up the old plan in his mind's eye.

"This way." He began to run, Vorkosigan following. The sounds of their attackers died away behind them. They ran for several minutes through the tunnels, past a number of junctions, before Illyan paused. His mental map told him that all the exits in this region came up in the same warren of alleys and back streets, and he had no intention of risking them again. Cautiously, he switched off the light. They stood under another trapdoor, and the darkness was a little less intense as light seeped through the cracks.

Vorkosigan stopped behind him. "Where are we going?" he demanded. "And do you know who was attacking?" He paused, and his voice was very dry as he added, "Other than ImpSec, that is."

The images in Illyan's head whirled as he called up the picture of the four men in the alley. He began to search through his other memories to find matches for the faces. Vorkosigan growled a little in his throat at the delay.

He'd been spending too long doing desk work lately, his ability to think and fight at the same time was starting to get rusty. But there was only one organisation with the power and the desire to organise this kind of attack on them, here and now. He found a match for a face. _Got you._

"Well?"

"Grishnov's men," said Illyan. "One of them was an agent in the mob they incited at the Ministry of Justice eleven months ago."

He heard Vorkosigan's quick intake of breath and felt the tension growing in the other man.

"In the mob eleven months ago," Vorkosigan repeated disbelievingly. "I remember that business. There were about nine hundred people there. How do you really know him?"

Suddenly Vorkosigan shoved him against the wall of the tunnel, jamming a muzzle hard against his solar plexus. "How did you know these tunnels were here? Where are you leading me? Answer me!"

"Dammit!" Illyan gasped, the breath knocked out of him. "We don't have _time_ for this! They won't be hanging around up there, they're committed to this now. Either you trust me or this will all go to hell."

"If I can't trust the outer perimeter," Vorkosigan said, "then I can't trust you either. And you know too much. How come you're so cosy with Grishnov's men?" He punctuated his words with another jab of the muzzle, then shook Illyan by his injured shoulder. "Explain yourself!"

Illyan choked on a gasp. "I don't... know why Iackowitz turned on us." He swallowed. "But I'm not cosy with Grishnov or his men! I just recognised them on my chip."

"Shit," said Vorkosigan in a different voice, and released him. A moment later Illyan was blinking in the beam of Vorkosigan's handlight, shining not on his face but his shoulder. He looked down and saw his entire sleeve was soaked in blood, and Vorkosigan's blood-smeared hand. "What chip?" Vorkosigan said, letting the pressure of his nerve disruptor slacken slightly.

Illyan blinked. Surely Vorkosigan had been briefed...

"My chip. Eidetic memory biochip implant," he said.

"You mean to tell me you're the one... God. Ezar mentioned his new toy, but I didn't know it was you." Vorkosigan gave him a long thoughtful stare. "I see why he stuck you on me now--well, never mind that." He holstered his nerve disruptor. "Why do you think it's Grishnov?"

Relieved of the pressure forcing him against the wall, Illyan slumped, feeling suddenly sick and dizzy. Shock. He must have lost more blood than he'd thought. He forced his mind into focus to answer the question.

"Who else is there? You must be right at the top of Grishnov's personal shit list now. And since your father's been staying out of it he'll think you're a safer target. Iackowitz must have been a deep-cover mole, and Grishnov is setting up ImpSec to take the fall for this. Which means he's got plans for me. Probably going to play off the chip, say that I've gone crazy at last, the bastard."

"What?" Vorkosigan stared at him like he'd grown another head. Then he shook himself. "You're right, we don't have time for this." He shrugged out of his uniform jacket, and sliced a sleeve off it with his knife. Illyan winced as Vorkosigan probed his shoulder, then tied the impromptu bandage around it tightly.

"Didn't Negri tell you?" Illyan asked.

"About your chip? No. He just said you were special and he would leave it to me as a _surprise_. I thought he meant he didn't trust you."

Despite himself Illyan gave a short laugh. A crash echoed through the tunnels, and they both jumped.

"They've got in," Vorkosigan said. "You know where you're going?"

"Map on the chip," Illyan answered. He straightened, blinking against the dizziness. "Best if we come up somewhere busy. Even Grishnov will find it hard to arrange another ambush in the middle of the rush hour in the business district."

"All right," Vorkosigan said. "Go."

There were more crashes, voices and the sound of heavy boots ringing through the tunnels. Illyan pushed himself on at a jog, tracking the wavering circle of Vorkosigan's light. "It's a warren down here," he breathed. "Heat sensors won't work outside a very short range, either. If we're quiet…"

He plotted out their course on the chip, looking for ways Grishnov's team might manage to overtake them. It took surprisingly long for his chip to respond to his thoughts, as if it was soaked with treacle. They jogged silently through several intersections, and the sounds of pursuit grew fainter behind them. Illyan stumbled, the last traces of the adrenaline that was keeping him upright wearing off, and Vorkosigan grabbed him.

"How much further is it?" he asked.

"Five more junctions," Illyan said in a strangely faint voice. "Forward, forward, right, forward, left. Then the third trapdoor after that junction."

"Good. Come on."

The rest of the way through the tunnels passed blurrily through Illyan's mind, in a whirl of pain and dizziness and the overwhelming desire to lie down and go to sleep, Vorkosigan's low voice echoing in his ears, words without meaning.

"Here we are. Right, I'll go on up and get the cavalry, and we'll come back for you," Vorkosigan was saying, and Illyan was finally allowed to lie down. Horizontal, his head felt a little clearer, clear enough for him to realise that they weren't out of danger yet and he had to stay alert.

"Right," he whispered. In the darkness he couldn't see Vorkosigan, but he could hear him nearby, evidently doing something to the trapdoor. But there was no burst of daylight from the roof, and a few moments later Vorkosigan was back.

"Where are we? The trapdoor seems to be shut from above."

Illyan dragged himself into focus enough to answer. "Outside Vorbohn Station," he said. "Just in front of the main concourse. There shouldn't be anything on top of it."

"Can I open it with my plasma arc?"

Illyan processed the question. "There'll be civilians walking about up there. Lots of them, at this hour. Listen." He could hear voices, footsteps, and the low rumble of the monorail train reverberating through the ground. Another thought came up in his mind. "Comm links ought to work here. Call again. ImpSec will be alert."

Vorkosigan hesitated. "And can I trust them when they show up?"

"The attackers," Illyan said with some frustration, "were not ImpSec. They were Grishnov's."

"Yes," Vorkosigan said, "I accept you're right about that. But you had one mole. There could be others."

"Of course there are others. Perhaps even some unknowns like Iackowitz. But not a whole squad at once. We're not stupid." Illyan reached for his comm link and fumbled with the buttons.

"Lieutenant!" came the voice of the duty officer. "What's your status?"

"We need a pick-up," Illyan said. "We're in the old sewers, just outside Vorbohn Station--you should be able to get a fix on my homing beacon now. There's something jamming or blocking the trapdoor here."

"Yes... got you, sir. You got company?"

"Not yet, but our attackers are still in here somewhere."

"Understood. We'll be with you in five minutes."

Illyan let his hand fall and tried to catch his breath. Five more minutes, he told his body sternly, just keep going for five more minutes.

"What about the other trapdoors in this area?" Vorkosigan asked.

"No good. They've been built over in the redevelopment. The next good exit is..." he ran through the map again wearily, "about half a kilometre away."

Vorkosigan was fidgety, pacing around, trying new ways to attack the trapdoor. "I don't like being trapped," he growled under his breath.

"Nor do I," Illyan said. "But I don't see a lot of choice here." His eyes drifted shut, and he forced them open again. Vorkosigan stopped beside him and shone the light over him, making him blink. Then he squatted down alongside.

"What did you mean, earlier?" he asked. "Why would Grishnov make it look like you'd gone crazy and turned on me?"

Illyan hesitated. He shouldn't really be answering that sort of question, but perhaps it would help him gain Vorkosigan's trust. Also, he didn't have the energy for an argument about it. "It's the chip," he said. "Ezar sent seven of us, you know, and the Illyricans had thirty other volunteers. Only four of the group were still functioning a year later, and I don't know what happened to the others after that." He paused to catch his breath. "It tries to drive you crazy, all the time. People aren't supposed to ... to have this much data in their heads."

"Seven," Vorkosigan said. "A guy I knew from the Academy went. Olaf Voraronberg. Never saw him again."

"He killed himself," Illyan said flatly, and that stopped Vorkosigan asking more questions. Illyan listened to the distant bustle above them, hoping to hear the sound of the ImpSec flyer landing. He heard more voices, footsteps...

"Shit," he said. "I think that's inside. Lights out."

The tunnel went dark, and Illyan listened hard. Yes. Those were military boots, and they were not coming from above. Then he heard the sound he'd been waiting for, the distinctive whine of an emergency flyer making a hot landing, and lots of alarmed voices and rapid footsteps overhead. His comm link chimed, a bright, cheerful echo in the tunnel, and both he and Vorkosigan swore.

"Sir? We're here," the tinny voice announced.

"Shut that off--" Vorkosigan unceremoniously grabbed his wrist and killed the comm link, but they both heard the voices in the tunnel, words indistinct but getting louder.

Illyan moved his good arm, drawing his disruptor and twisting as much as he could to face the direction of the voices. Above he could hear ImpSec approaching, bangs on the trapdoor and the whine of some kind of power tool. Vorkosigan dropped into a firing crouch alongside him. They waited.

Everything happened at once. A disruptor beam crackled from around the corner of the tunnel. The trapdoor crashed open and sent a blast of cold air and a pile of wet snow down on top of Illyan and Vorkosigan. Cold evening light shone in. Vorkosigan gave a warning shout to the ImpSec men, one of Grishnov's team dodged around the corner into his line of sight and Illyan fired.

"Nice one," Vorkosigan said as the man fell. Then the first combat-armoured ImpSec agent dropped into the tunnel, and another monorail train must have been passing, because Illyan couldn't hear anything except the roaring, and the light from the trapdoor seemed to recede, as if he was sinking deeper and deeper into the ground, and blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

Illyan awoke. Automatically, before even opening his eyes, he reviewed his memories. Judging by the gap in his chip memory, he'd been unconscious a little over three and a half hours. He looked around. He was in the ImpSec infirmary, alone. He went back to the last clear memories on his chip... the old sewers, Grishnov's men following, ImpSec arriving. His chip memory went on a little further than his organic one, showing him six ImpSec agents fanning out into the tunnel and a field medic stooping over him, but even those images came to an abrupt stop a few moments later.

A medtech came in. "Ah, good, you're awake. The Chief was asking after you." He began to fuss with his monitors, nodding and noting things on a data pad, then withdrew a drip and checked the bandaging on Illyan's arm. "He said he wants to see you as soon as you're up."

Illyan sighed inwardly. His mind felt a little fuzzy from whatever painkillers the medtech had him on, the time he'd spent unconscious hadn't been the same thing as actual rest, and facing Negri was hard enough at the best of times. Under the medtech's eye, he got up and dressed, his left arm numb and awkward from the medical stun.

"You'll do," the medtech said. "Light duties only for the next week."

"Good," came a voice from the doorway, and Illyan and the medtech both turned and came to attention as Negri entered. The medtech hurried out at a wave of Negri's hand, and Negri turned to Illyan.

"I suppose that foul-up could have been worse," he said. "You did well. Vorkosigan passed your analysis on to me, and I think you're correct. We took two of your attackers alive, and they've been singing for the past hour. Unfortunately Iackowitz was killed." Negri's heavy face grew angry. "Finding out how he got through our screening unnoticed will be keeping some of your colleagues busy for a while."

"Why did Grishnov try it at all?" Illyan asked. "The Emperor was putting a stop to Captain Vorkosigan's investigation."

"Right now Grishnov is distancing himself so fast he's blurring," Negri said, not quite answering the question. "He claims that the word didn't get passed on in time, all a misunderstanding, extremely sorry... you know the drill. I think he just saw an opportunity and went for it."

That seemed unlike Grishnov, but Negri's expression did not invite further comment even from his protégé.

"Captain Vorkosigan is waiting for you in the apartment downstairs," Negri said. "If you're up to it, I think he'd like to go on to Vorkosigan House."

"You don't want to give him someone not on the sicklist?" Illyan said.

"You'll have a tighter guard, but I don't think Grishnov will move again. Ezar's been talking to him." Negri looked Illyan up and down. "Go on, then. I'll tell Vorkosigan to meet you at the side door."

At the side door, a car was waiting for them, and Illyan was bowed in by a young man in the silver and brown Vorkosigan livery. They drove through the late-evening traffic and arrived at Vorkosigan House. Illyan stifled his reaction as he saw the enormous, opulent house. Somehow, he had always thought of Vorkosigan in his role as soldier, not as a Vor lord of the first rank. He knew, of course, that should something happen to both Prince Serg and baby Gregor, Princess Olivia's son would have a strong claim to the Imperium. Could he be sitting next to the future Emperor of Barrayar? He put the thought away firmly. He was sworn to Ezar and his line, as was the soldier beside him.

Another armsman opened the great front door of Vorkosigan House and admitted them. Vorkosigan gave orders for a room to be prepared for Illyan and sent for drinks in the library. Illyan refrained from protesting that he was on duty and followed Vorkosigan through the marbled corridors. The library was a large, panelled room which reminded Illyan of an unusual museum, archaic leather-bound books carefully shelved behind glass, modern vid discs more carelessly stowed lower down. Vorkosigan gestured to an armchair before a blazing fire, and Illyan was reminded that he had only just been released from sickbay as he sat with some relief. A liveried servant entered wheeling a well-stocked trolley and stood at a polite distance.

In and out of the Imperial Residence for the past five years, Illyan was not unused to opulence around him, but he had never had any of it directed at him. He was accustomed to being the servant, not the guest. Vorkosigan seemed entirely at ease.

"Brandy all right with you, Lieutenant? Two brandies, please."

A beautiful snifter was placed at his elbow and a platter of assorted nibbles materialised on the table between them. Illyan decided to sit back and enjoy his chance to play the Vor lord. The brandy was excellent, even to Illyan's not hugely experienced palate. When the servant had left, Vorkosigan leaned forward.

"I owe you an apology," he said. "I thought you were Grishnov's man ever since I met you."

"That was Radnov's doing," Illyan said at once. "I didn't know until after we got back to ImpSec that he was your enemy. We did our officers' training together."

Illumination crossed Vorkosigan's face. He sipped his brandy. "I didn't like to doubt Negri--though he does like his games--but I don't trust spies, and I was in a humour to be suspicious of anyone."

A smile twitched the corners of Illyan's mouth. "ImpSec agents can hardly criticise anyone else for paranoia."

"Ha. True. Whilst you were out of it I had a word with Negri and he made your position in ImpSec clear to me."

Wish he'd make it clear to me, Illyan thought wryly as Vorkosigan did not seem to be forthcoming about how highly Negri rated him. But Negri took need-to-know very seriously indeed. Why, he wondered, did Vorkosigan need to know? He finished his brandy and leaned back with a little sigh. At once Vorkosigan turned to him.

"Get some sleep, Lieutenant. The rest of the week should be quiet enough--I've got nothing but meetings for days." He pressed a button discreetly concealed in the arm of his chair, and a moment later the servant reappeared. "Show Lieutenant Illyan up to the red suite, please."

Illyan rose stiffly and followed the servant through a maze of corridors and staircases to a handsome suite on the second floor. He hadn't ever been shown a plan of Vorkosigan House, so he made sure to observe all around him to provide some preliminary data on the place. Not that he was likely to spend much time here.

*

Vorkosigan hadn't been exaggerating about the meetings. Waiting in the richly decorated corridors of the Imperial Residence was far more boring for Illyan than it would have been for any other man, because after he saw something for the first time there was no possibility of him noticing extra details on the thirteenth examination of it. Painting had never interested him anyway; if there was an art form he cared for it was music. Music spoke to the emotions, and emotion was not recorded on his chip: even when he listened to the same symphony for the tenth time he could not predict how it would affect him. Sometimes he hummed to himself as he paced the corridors. Other times he swore. Whatever was going on in Ezar's private office, it was taking a lot of organising.

It was near time for them to finish for the day, and soon Vorkosigan came out. As always, Negri remained with Ezar, but Illyan rose and stood at attention as Vorkosigan approached. Vorkosigan's expression was morose and grim, and he merely nodded to Illyan. Illyan fell in behind him as they made their way out to the groundcar. They had not walked home again after that first night, and Illyan was always careful to check the car before he let Vorkosigan in, even though it was driven by one of Vorkosigan's personal Armsmen. He was staying at Vorkosigan House for the time being. Negri had only warned him against getting used to the life of luxury, but Illyan could see that he was pleased that Vorkosigan had dropped his hostility towards him.

"I know you can't tell me what's being discussed in there, but do you have any idea how much longer this is going to go on, sir?" Illyan asked once they were seated in the groundcar.

Vorkosigan, settling himself opposite, shot Illyan a look with the faintest hint of amusement beneath his grimness. "Getting tired of watching me eat my breakfast each morning, are you?"

"Oh," Illyan said, "watching people eat their breakfast is part of the job, sir." He paused, gauging Vorkosigan's mood, then went on, "Normally, though, I get to shoot them afterwards."

Vorkosigan blinked at him, then let out a sudden laugh. "I didn't know Negri allowed his people to have a sense of humour." A smile lightened his expression for a moment, then faded. "Well, we're getting through the work," he said. "Perhaps two, three more days." He paused. "Actually, there are a few things I can tell you--ought to tell you, in fact, though I expect Captain Negri will give you more details later on. It looks like you're going to be coming with me to Escobar."

"Ah. I thought it must be Escobar that was keeping you so busy." Illyan considered his good fortune. This had looked like being an unusually dull job, but if he was going to get to go with the invasion fleet.... "Are you commanding, then, sir?" he asked hopefully.

Vorkosigan's brows lowered. "No." The monosyllable was a bare, harsh whisper. Illyan fell silent, chastened.

After a minute Vorkosigan relented. "You'll find out who's commanding shortly. I'm going on the staff." He frowned. "I've made no secret of what I think of this business, so I'm in charge of the contingency plans." He scowled, gazing out the window.

"Do you have a family?" he asked suddenly, just when Illyan had given up hope of getting any more out of him.

"Just my mother," Illyan said, surprised. "She lives out in Vordarian's District."

"Hmm. I shall arrange to spend a day at home seeing absolutely nobody--my word as Vorkosigan on it--so you can go out and visit her before we go."

"That's very good of you, sir."

Vorkosigan shook his head mutely. Illyan meditated on this development. It was easy to follow Vorkosigan's reasoning. He expected a disaster, and he was sending Illyan to say goodbye to his mother before taking him away to be killed. Illyan thought Vorkosigan's assessment unduly pessimistic, but he had to admit it was a generous offer.

*

A week later Illyan got leave from Negri to requisition a flyer from ImpSec's vehicle pool, and took off for Vordarian's District. The flight took just over an hour, and Illyan landed on the outskirts of a small town, secured the flyer and made his way to his mother's home.

She had left the cottage where Illyan had grown up several years ago, when she had become too frail to live alone, and now had the upper floor of an old town house to herself. Ma Ockhert, the landlady, looked after her. A large chunk of Illyan's pay went towards this arrangement, since the widow's pension from the Service was pitifully small and all the family's savings had gone to putting the two sons through officers' training.

He had called ahead, and Ma Ockhert met him at the door. She had known Illyan since he was a boy, and even the ImpSec insignia on his collar could not daunt her.

"Go right on up," she said after Illyan had deflected several not-so-discreet enquiries about the progress of his love-life and whether he needed a good Baba yet. "She's doing pretty well today."

As he climbed the stairs, Illyan contemplated his lack of a love life. It wasn't for want of opportunities, nor of trying, and before he'd had the damned chip installed he'd known several nice girls. The full ImpSec background check on anyone he so much as shared a drink with was a bit irritating, especially when it brought up unhelpful facts like pre-existing betrothals or membership of radical political groups, but it was the memory chip that had killed all his recent attempts. He'd explained that it was a piece of galactic technology, but he could see that to many of the young women he met a technological mutant was still a mutant. He'd been getting on really well with one young woman until telling her about the chip, but then she had grown cooler and cooler towards him until, confronting her, she had screamed at him to leave her alone and not use his mutie brain powers around her. He could see the ridiculous side of it, but it had stung nonetheless. The chip might be great for his career, but it was death to his personal life. It was beginning to look like his mother would never get the grandchildren she hoped for.

He reached the top of the stairs, entered his mother's rooms and greeted her with an affectionate embrace. After the pleasantries were finished with, her health enquired after and her comfort assured, she turned bright, quizzical eyes on him.

"You haven't come all this way out of the capital just to hear my little news," she said. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh yes. But you're right, I do have some news for you. I've been assigned to galactic duty. I'm going out with the fleet, to Escobar."

Her eyes widened. "To Escobar? You've been given ship duty? I'd heard about the invasion, of course, but I had hoped--I'd expected ImpSec would keep you here. I thought you were working at the Imperial Residence."

Her slip dented Illyan's excitement. Of course, she must have hoped her second son would not also be consumed in battle.

"I'm going on the flagship, with Lord Vorkosigan," he said, hoping to restore her confidence, and was pleased to see his mother's face light up.

"The Hero of Komarr?" she exclaimed. "And you're going as his aide? That's marvellous. Everyone says he is a good man."

"Er," said Illyan, embarrassed by her delight but unable to lie, "well, I'm actually going as his spy. The Emperor wants him watched."

She looked at the carpeted floor and the pleasure vanished from her face.

"I know you don't much like my work," Illyan began defensively, but she interrupted.

"I understand someone has to do it," she said, "and you must do your duty. I know you will do what is honourable. But spying on our own men, on Lord Vorkosigan…" She shifted in her chair, and Illyan changed the subject abruptly to avoid saying anything he might regret. He fumbled inside his uniform jacket.

"I brought you this. Spotted it in a little shop in the capital, and thought you'd like it."

He pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper and gave it to her. She unfolded the paper and pulled out a small, carefully painted ikon. Illyan glanced around the room. There had been ikons everywhere in his childhood house, standing in every corner of every room. Now many of them had been put away, but his mother's love for them was undiminished.

His mother's smile returned as she looked it. Illyan did not need to peer over her shoulder, for his chip produced the exact appearance of it in his mind. It was of the Agony in the Garden, and the painter had been a man of unusual talent, to capture the anguish on the principal figure's face. Not a cheerful ikon, but a beautiful one nonetheless.

She kissed the ikon and glanced expectantly at him. Illyan had long forsaken the old Russian faith of his childhood, a bastard version of the faith a few of the original colonists had practiced, but he would no sooner say so to his mother than he would strike her. He kissed the ikon three times and joined his voice with his mother's in the prayers he had learned almost as soon as he could speak.

For a while afterwards his mother bowed her head in silent prayer, whilst Illyan looked around uncomfortably and tried not to fidget. The ikons around the room seemed to be watching him. On the stand by the door he saw the one which had once hung above his bed. Mikhail the Archangel, armed with the two swords and wearing fine Time-of-Isolation armour, stood indomitably facing a great black dragon. He had been fascinated by it as a child, and played at slaying dragons in their little garden.

His mother looked up again and followed his gaze. "Oh yes, that used to be yours, didn't it?" She pushed herself up from the chair and hobbled over to it. "You should have something of home, when you go off to this battle," she said. She took up the ikon and replaced it with the one Illyan had just given her. "There. Very appropriate for a soldier. The defender of the innocent and slayer of monsters."

Illyan helped her back to the chair and accepted the ikon. It would, he thought, look very odd in the cabin of a battle cruiser, but it could not be refused.

He saw that his mother was growing tired, and began to make his farewell. She kissed him and gave him her blessing, then let go of him reluctantly. He could feel her eyes following him, memorising him, as he left the room. The ikon felt hard and heavy in his pocket.

*

When he landed his flyer at ImpSec and went to sign it back in, the corporal on the desk gave a nod.

"There you are. Captain Negri wants to see you, sir. He said you were to go straight up."

Illyan nodded. Ignoring the corporal's expression of curious inquiry, he hurried to obey, straightening his jacket as he made his way through the complicated passageways of ImpSec, wondering what this was about. He had cleared his trip with both Vorkosigan and ImpSec, it couldn't be some reprimand for it. His chip produced nothing from his actions of the past few days that could deserve Negri's negative attention. New orders, perhaps? Explanations of what he was supposed to be doing sitting in the corridors of the Residence all day? He could hope.

Negri was busy when Illyan reached the outer office, and the secretary directed him to sit and wait. Staring at the wall, Illyan considered his commander and mentor. Negri was fanatically loyal to the Emperor and to him alone. Illyan had wondered many times whether his own distant respect for Ezar was a failing. He had sworn his oath to Ezar, and kept it through battle and intrigue, but he did not seem to be capable of the devotion Negri had for the old man. But then, Negri had laid down everything, including his sacred oath to Emperor Yuri, for Ezar's sake. If it took such fires as those to forge Negri's kind of loyalty, Illyan was not altogether sorry to lack it. The days of civil war were over.

But he could not avoid a twinge of regret. On Barrayar, everyone belonged to someone. Oaths and bonds of sacred loyalty held the entire society in place. In this close, almost intimate network, Illyan felt like a stranger. He had never even met Vordarian, his district Count, the first man to whom he was in theory bound, nor did Negri inspire that kind of loyalty in him, nor even the Emperor. In this land of bonds Illyan was free, but freedom from loyalty was about as desirable as that other freedom he had, freedom from love. But neither could be had for the asking.

He knew the reason, of course. A squadron of psychologists had studied him like a creature in a zoo, the most successful survivor of the memory chip, and had decided he had adapted to having the chip by operating almost constantly in an analytical mode of thought, treating everything in life as a distant fact to be observed from a position of godlike detachment. It was, he thought, the only way, when you could not lose your own foibles or weaknesses into merciful forgetfulness. He had to treat them all as cold, passionless facts, separate from their emotional freight. But there was nothing passionless about love, nor loyalty either. It was another part of the price he had to pay for having the chip.

A light flashed on the secretary's monitor. "You can go in now," he told Illyan.

Illyan was no stranger to Negri's office. As he had risen through ImpSec he had spent more and more time here. Once the biochip had been implanted in his head, Negri had moved him sideways through the chain of command, so that he reported only to Negri. Now he took the seat Negri waved him towards and gazed attentively across the large desk.

"I see you have finally managed to get on good terms with Vorkosigan," Negri observed blandly.

Illyan nodded, then when something more seemed to be required, said, "It would have been somewhat easier had he been fully briefed regarding my chip."

Negri smiled, or at least bared his teeth. "So I have heard from Vorkosigan. At some length. It was interesting to see how you both coped with the situation."

Illyan groaned inwardly. Everything was a test, with Negri. However, since further criticism was not forthcoming, he knew he could assume he had passed.

"Replay me any conversations you have had with Vorkosigan about the Escobar invasion," Negri said abruptly.

Well used to Negri's terse command style, Illyan scanned his memory without showing any discomposure and let the words spill from his mouth. Recalling in this way was a peculiar experience, since it did not interfere with his ability to think of something quite different or access other memories, and sometimes he would feel almost in a trance, his mouth describing the contents of his chip whilst his mind was occupied on another matter. But this time he followed the memory attentively, wondering what Negri was looking for. As far as he could tell, Vorkosigan hadn't said anything improper. But Negri only nodded slightly when he ran to the end of the conversation.

"Thank you. Now give me your personal opinion on the invasion plans."

Illyan hesitated for an instant to collect his thoughts. Negri rarely wanted personal opinions--what was he testing for this time?

"Comparatively speaking, it will be a much more difficult conquest than Komarr. Escobar has a strong military, and her fleet may well be an equal match for ours. I would expect retaliation from Escobar's allies and frequent attempts at revolt if we succeed. On the other hand, our military is far more experienced both in frontal attacks and pacification. With a wise strategy and swift moving we could get the upper hand."

"And considered from the domestic perspective?" Negri prompted when he paused.

"Well… Grishnov is pulling the strings. Either success or failure could cause considerable political, ah, difficulties here." Perhaps even the civil war they all feared. Visions of political chaos danced through his mind. "In success, Grishnov's personal influence would increase substantially. In failure, he could turn to revenge, perhaps even use it to discredit the Emperor." Vorkosigan would make an ideal scapegoat in that scenario. Illyan frowned thoughtfully and made a mental note. He would not wish to be taken down with Vorkosigan should this prediction be fulfilled. It would be prudent to make sure he had a plan to avoid this fate.

Negri's face remained impassive. "Interesting analysis, Lieutenant. Time will tell how accurate it is. Tomorrow Vorkosigan and the rest of the Staff will be heading out to the fleet. You will continue to accompany Vorkosigan." Negri paused to bring something up on his comconsole, then continued. "The joint commanders of the fleet are Prince Serg and Admiral Vorrutyer. Admiral Vorhalas will also be going with you, and the usual assortment of more junior officers."

Vorrutyer. Illyan's memory flickered instantly to the mentions of the man in Vorkosigan's file. They'd been lovers for years, and the details in the file grew increasingly unpleasant until Vorkosigan had left Vorrutyer for ship duty. But Vorkosigan had been a different man then. Perhaps Vorrutyer had changed as well.

Negri was watching him closely. "One of your most important duties will be to prevent Vorkosigan from doing anything--rash, in relation to Serg and Vorrutyer. Vorkosigan must work with them and avoid confrontations." He paused. "You must remember that you are not in the chain of command on the fleet. Vorkosigan is not your commanding officer, and neither are Serg or Vorrutyer. It is your duty to watch Vorkosigan and steer him through this expedition without any kind of scandal or political involvement. The military business is out of your area of competence; it is the interactions between the Staff that are dangerous."

Illyan nodded, his mind whirling. Explanations at last on why Negri had put him to watch Vorkosigan. There was something more going on with this invasion--was Negri expecting a coup? Serg and Vorrutyer were trouble, no doubt of it. He looked at Negri, hoping for more answers.

"This is Ezar's will. Vorkosigan is headstrong; he will not avoid trouble. You must discourage him from incriminating himself. Also you must not incriminate yourself or compromise your neutrality. And when you return you will give Ezar and myself a full report of all of Vorkosigan's activities."

"What, for the whole duration of the invasion?" Illyan blurted out, briefly horrified. They could be gone for months, maybe even a year. How long would it take to play back that much memory? There would be no interim reports: none of his chip-reports were ever committed to writing, by Ezar's order.

"If necessary," Negri said calmly. "The Emperor is very interested in how this turns out."

Illyan returned his face to its bland mask. "Is there anything particular I should endeavour to observe?" Serg, for instance. It had been mostly down to Illyan and his memory chip that the most recent attempt by Prince Serg on his father's life had been foiled. Watching Vorkosigan as a cover for watching Serg would make excellent sense.

"Just keep Vorkosigan in your sights." Negri's reply cut off that line of speculation. "Do not permit him to do anything without your observation." Negri leaned forward a little and repeated his toothy smile. "An easy job, now that you've got him eating out of your hand. Make sure it stays that way."


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later Illyan and Vorkosigan drove to the shuttleport and went up to the light cruiser that would take them to the fleet depot on the newly-discovered planet. As soon as they were aboard, Vorkosigan headed for a small briefing room. Illyan followed him in silently. After Negri's speech he had been schooling himself to be entirely neutral in all his dealings with Vorkosigan, locking away all his personal opinions and judgements so as to present the face of the perfect watcher that Negri and Ezar desired.

There was a man awaiting them in the briefing room with yellow vice-admiral's tabs on his collar. He did not spare Illyan a glance; all his attention was focused on Commodore Vorkosigan. He came forward until he was standing a bare step away, reached out and tapped Vorkosigan's new rank tabs with a finger. Illyan, positioning himself where he could see both faces clearly, took it for a gesture of affection until he saw Admiral Vorrutyer's eyes.

"We serve together again," Vorrutyer said, smiling.

"Just so." Vorkosigan did not step back, but his face was blank.

Now Admiral Vorrutyer did look around, and his gaze landed on Illyan, who returned it neutrally. _I am a piece of furniture, I am watching through a camera._ A strange mixture of expressions crossed Vorrutyer's face--anger, satisfaction... jealousy?

"Who's your friend?" he asked. "Got over your puritanical ways at last? A sweet piece, I suppose, if you like innocents, but you can do better than that."

It was a moment before Illyan realised what Vorrutyer meant. For a moment he stared at Vorrutyer in dismay and anger, then controlled himself.

"Don't make yourself even more of an idiot than you already are," Vorkosigan growled. "He's Negri's man. Your dear Grishnov had to have someone spying on me wherever I go."

For a moment Vorrutyer looked uncertain, and Illyan could not suppress his satisfaction at the effect of Negri's name on Grishnov's pet Vor lord.

"Well, I'm sure we can find you someone less... politically exciting, to keep your bed warm," he said, recovering his poise and pointedly turning away from Illyan. "It'll be just like old times."

Vorkosigan drew breath to reply hotly, then, to Illyan's profound relief, swallowed his rejoinder. The idea of having to wade into this morass of innuendo and personal history appealed slightly less than walking into an open sewer. "In the meantime, there is a war to fight," Vorkosigan said steadily.

"Ah, my perfect soldier." A delighted smile crossed Vorrutyer's face. "A perfect soldier, you know, always obeys his commanding officer." Vorrutyer's voice lowered. "What if I ordered you to kneel down so that we could get some better use out of that clever mouth of yours? Would you obey me then? I used to, when you made lieutenant before I did."

Illyan swallowed. He didn't _think_ Vorkosigan cared for such games now, but still.... Negri's words repeated themselves in his head. _Vorkosigan is not your commanding officer._ Just as well, under the circumstances.

"It's been a long time since I was a perfect soldier," Vorkosigan said, his expression almost perfectly impassive. Illyan kept his eyes fixed on Vorkosigan, trying to imitate his unflappable calm.

Vorrutyer gave a patronising laugh and patted Vorkosigan on the rear. Illyan nearly choked, but Vorkosigan still did not flinch. Then Vorrutyer stepped back a pace.

"We'll play it your way for a time, then. At least until we get to the flagship."

Mercifully, the conversation then turned to business. Illyan attended carefully to what was said. It was possible for him to stand with his mind empty, trusting to his chip to record everything for analysis at his leisure, but he was thirsty for information now and tried to glean everything he could from Vorrutyer's speech and movements. He seemed to have a good grasp on the state of preparations for the invasion, at least. Vorkosigan added little, which puzzled Illyan. Vorkosigan had been planning this with the Emperor himself for the past week, but whatever he'd discussed then, he didn't seem inclined to talk about it with Vorrutyer.

*

His first encounter with the Prince, when he joined the cruiser later that day, was less of a surprise. Whilst Illyan had come out here with a vague idea of Vorrutyer's corruption, he had no doubt at all about the Prince. He tried not to watch him like a big-game hunter eyeing a leopard in the trees. He had engaged in battle against the Prince twice now, and had come out on top both times. Four years ago he had been closely involved in keeping Princess Kareen and her unborn child well clear of her vile husband, and only a few months ago it had been his men who had killed or captured all of the Prince's co-conspirators against his father, in a single night. Serg could not know that Illyan had been involved in these actions, but he certainly knew ImpSec was behind them, and he looked angrily at the insignia on Illyan's dress uniform.

Vorkosigan glanced over a flimsy on the table, frowned and looked again. Illyan automatically scanned it from over his shoulder, collecting data. It was a simple list of personnel and assignments on the cruiser, nothing that seemed unusual. But the scowl did not leave Vorkosigan's face. Illyan began to run a search for the names, and came up with a match at once. Sergeant Konstantine Bothari, now assigned as Admiral Vorrutyer's batman, had served Vorkosigan on the _General Vorkraft_. He, the report stated, had been the man who had refrained from killing Vorkosigan during the mutiny, but had instead stunned him and concealed him from the other mutineers. Other than that, Illyan knew nothing about him, but he could see that Vorkosigan was displeased at finding his man in Vorrutyer's service.

The Prince glanced at the same list and smiled. "Dear me, Aral, it looks like someone has forgotten to assign you a batman."

"I expect I can remember how to fold my own clothes, sir," Vorkosigan said dryly.

"No, no, we can't have that," the Prince said still smiling. His eye fell on Illyan. "I'm sure your watchdog here would be happy to make himself useful."

Illyan bowed, not reacting to the slight. It might be an honour for the enlisted men to be chosen as a staff officer's batman, but for a senior lieutenant it was an insult. Vorkosigan glanced at him in a moment of worry, and Illyan included him in his bland bow.

"As your lordship wishes," he said. In these times, a batman's duties were not particularly onerous. Once he might have been required to forage for his lord, care for his horse and clean his swords, pitch his tent and sleep across the entrance, but now the work was easy enough, and he was going to have to live in Vorkosigan's pocket anyway. Prince Serg's smile slid away as it became clear that he had failed to provoke either man. Before he could make some further attempt, Admirals Vorhalas and Vorrutyer entered with the other two commodores, Couer and Helski, along with a passel of aides, and the meeting began.

Illyan had only a moderate grasp of ship-fighting tactics and manoeuvres, but he could rate the various suggestions for capturing the wormhole to Escobar by the changing expressions on Vorkosigan's face. It seemed that there was little doubt that they had the firepower and ships to take the wormhole, and the main question was what technique would enable them to do so with the fewest losses. From Vorkosigan's saturnine expression most of the suggestions were inadequate, but he rarely offered his own. Illyan reviewed Negri's commands to him in his head. If Vorkosigan retained this stoic composure around Serg and Vorrutyer for the whole campaign, steering him clear of trouble would be an easier job than he had feared.

A buzzer sounded to warn them of the impending jump, and Admiral Vorhalas rose abruptly, interrupting Vorkosigan's analysis of Escobaran wormhole defence possibilities.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." He hurried out of the briefing room to the tiny lounge adjoining it.

"Well," said Prince Serg, "I don't think he agrees with you, Aral."

"No, he gets jump-sick," Vorkosigan said in very neutral tones which did not prevent a smirk from crossing the Prince's face.

"Really? What an unfortunate affliction in an Admiral."

A rare one, Illyan thought. If Vorhalas had risen to such a high rank despite it, he must be a truly brilliant officer.

"Can we expect him back for the next week?" Vorrutyer put in sardonically. "Or shall we postpone further planning until we reach the base?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Vorkosigan answered, and the second jump-alarm sounded.

Illyan braced himself. He hated jumps. The time-dilation effects messed up his chip's internal clock, so that he always had a moment of total confusion when they came out of the wormhole, when his subjective mind told him several seconds had passed, and the chip had recorded several hours, and he had to reset the whole thing. Nobody had ever been able to explain to his satisfaction why this happened--something to do with the organic parts of the chip, was the best guess of various neurologists. But disentangling his memories took time and attention, and with the chip he could never be eligible for active space duty again.

Fortunately, he didn't have to do anything other than sit in a chair for this one and try not to show his confusion, both of which he managed. After a few minutes Vorhalas returned, looking tired and rather green. "Apologies," he said briefly, and sat down.

"Six more jumps to the forward base," the Prince commented. "Would you like to be excused from further meetings?" He could not quite conceal the hope in his eyes.

"No, I'm fine," Vorhalas said brusquely. "Carry on, please. Where were we? The Escobaran defence of the wormhole...?"

The Prince picked up the discussion again, and Illyan sat back, letting the words flow onto his chip. They paused briefly for lunch, then returned to their planning. Illyan sat with the aides and listened. Here in the briefing room, there wasn't even a window to stare out of, and even if there were he wouldn't have much to see. He raised his head as Vorkosigan's voice cut into the dull to-and-fro-ing about ship formations and weapon systems.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "You might win with those tactics, but the casualties we'll take will be appalling."

"I'm sure you'd like something more cautious," Serg retorted. "You lost your nerve after Komarr."

Couer broke in before Serg could develop his insults any further, though Vorkosigan seemed not to hear.

"How quickly can we get serious firepower into their local space? It's going to take time for them to locate the wormhole exit, they're going to be spread out searching for it and trying to guard everything at once. If we can get through there fast they won't be able to link up and we can pick them off as they arrive."

The Prince took up a flimsy and light-pen, and scribbled numbers for a minute. Illyan watched in surprise as the sneer on his face was absorbed by concentration. It seemed there were things the Prince enjoyed that didn't involve hurting people.

"Oh, never mind that," Vorrutyer said impatiently, breaking the spell. "The computer can do all the sums."

The Prince wrote a few more figures in a half-hearted way, but set the pen down at a small snort from Vorrutyer.

Mildly, Vorhalas asked, "What do you figure?"

"It doesn't matter. As Ges says, the computer can give a precise answer." He glowered around the room.

The buzzer sounded for the second jump of the day, and again Vorhalas excused himself. Illyan tried to distract himself from his inner confusion and disorientation by comparing it to the previous jump, and to other jumps he had experienced. Pilots said that each jump had its own special sensations; when you could get them going they would rhapsodize about the amazing jumps they had experienced, but to most people they varied only as to how sick they made you feel.

Admiral Vorhalas did not return, and after a while Vorrutyer suggested that they finish up for the day. Vorkosigan and Illyan rose as the Prince went out, Vorrutyer following him along with Helski and Couer. Then Vorkosigan went to the adjoining wardroom.

Vorhalas was sitting with his head in his hands. He blinked up at them as they entered.

"Two in one day," he muttered. "What a bitch."

"Sickbay?" Vorkosigan suggested. "We're going to need you for this planning."

"Oh, I'll live. The medics aren't much use for this anyhow. Think I'll go lie down for a while." He rose, leaning on the table. Vorkosigan put a hand under his elbow, and they walked slowly to the door, Illyan following. "Did they decide anything more after I went out?"

"Not really. How much do you think you can do, to get a half-sane plan for this attack sorted out? I don't think I'd better make any more suggestions myself."

Vorhalas smiled faintly. "No. Not unless you suggest the exact opposite of what you want done." He paused. "Are you going to... be all right, working with Ges?"

A shutter seemed to drop over Vorkosigan's face. "I expect so."

"He was trying to pump me for information about, er, your private life, earlier."

Vorkosigan grunted.

"Told him I didn't know a thing, of course. He didn't believe me, but he let it drop after a while." Vorhalas glanced sideways. "Watch out for yourself. He's ... changed, since I last had much to do with him, and not for the better. And Prince Serg--" There was a politically-charged silence, and Vorhalas looked at Illyan.

"Don't mind him," Vorkosigan said, giving Illyan a wry grimace. "He's only spying on me."

Illyan nodded confirmation of this. Vorhalas looked at him with narrowed eyes and a deep frown. Illyan gazed back, his face blank. It was getting harder and harder for this sort of thing to discompose him. Besides, compared to Vorkosigan's glower it was mild. They reached Vorhalas' cabin and Vorkosigan entered.

"Don't worry about me, Rulf," Vorkosigan said, sitting beside Vorhalas on the bunk. Illyan stood motionless by the half-open door, giving what illusion he could of privacy. Left to himself, he would have been tempted to permit Vorkosigan to be alone with his friend after all the unpleasantness of the day, but orders were orders. "Get some rest. No more jumps till tomorrow afternoon now."

"Thank God for that." Vorhalas leaned back against the wall, still rather green.

"Shall I send your batman to you?"

"No, I'll be fine." Vorhalas stared into space for a while. Then he looked intently at Vorkosigan. "Do you really think it's going to fail?"

Vorkosigan sighed. "I'd give my right arm if I thought it would help it succeed. But we haven't got a hope." He frowned. "We'll probably get through this first stage well enough, if you can get them to adopt a sensible plan. But in the long run ... no. The Escobarans have serious allies--Beta, Tau Ceti perhaps, Earth will throw their diplomatic weight behind them, the Cetagandans might join in just to give us a bloody nose, or worse." He cut himself off, seeing Vorhalas' unhappy grimace. "We'll deal with what we find. But look out for yourself."

*

On the tenth day from their departure from Vorbarr Sultana they reached Fleet Base. Illyan looked through a small viewport on the shuttle and gazed longingly at the as-yet unnamed planet which held the supply depot and lower command centre. But they were not going to make planetfall; it would be spaceships for months and months. The only other chance of breathing air that hadn't been recycled a hundred times would be at Escobar, if they conquered. He wondered yet again how accurate Vorkosigan's gloomy predictions were. Surely this expedition wouldn't have been started if it didn't have a hope of success? Illyan would have preferred to retain his innocent assumptions about the wisdom of the General Staff and the two Councils, but the more he saw of the inner workings of the staff of this expedition, the harder it became.

The shuttle docked neatly against the flagship, and Illyan heard the hisses and grating metallic sounds that promised a rapid disembarkation.

"Room to move at last," Vorrutyer commented. "I believe our cabins on the flagship are a bit more civilised."

Prince Serg smirked. "Indeed they are."

Illyan called up the plans of the ship he had seen, and located the staff officers' quarters. There were two unusually large cabins there, with rather more furnishings and installations than he was accustomed to find on a military fleet. He could deduce which was the Prince's from the extra security posts marked around it and the fact that it had an empty cabin on either side, marked for the use of the Prince's personal bodyguards. Though what the Prince needed guarding from on a ship of his own men--well, Illyan understood security paranoia. The cabin assigned to Vorkosigan was standard, similar to the one he'd had on the cruiser.

A polite ensign entered their compartment and announced that the shuttle was prepared for them to disembark. Vorrutyer let the Prince precede him, and Illyan turned away from the viewport. Vorkosigan was helping Admiral Vorhalas to his feet. Despite all his efforts, Vorhalas had finally conceded defeat and had spent the past two days in bed, wretchedly jump-sick. Vorkosigan had done all he could to help him, showing a kindness Illyan would never have suspected him of towards the sick man. But from the conversations he had heard and, by necessity, recorded, it was clear that they had been friends for many years and this was by no means the first time they had travelled this route together.

They left the shuttle and found themselves in a large loading bay, full of soldiers standing to attention, splendid in their dress uniforms to receive their supreme commander and his staff. Much to his discomfiture, Illyan suddenly found himself the target of many curious stares. It was worse than being presented with a medal. By nature and long training, Illyan preferred to stand in the shadows, doing the watching. Being watched was dangerous. But his ImpSec insignia had an almost magical effect on the watchers, and he was pleased to notice more than one pair of eyes flicker to his collar, then fix themselves straight ahead with an attempt at a blank expression.

His own blank expression was rather more successful, and it was necessary to retain it for a long time, once Prince Serg stepped onto a box and began to address the soldiers. It was a stirring speech on the theme of the expansion of the Barrayaran Empire, describing how the Escobarans would flee before them and the wealth that awaited them when they conquered Escobar. Considered as a piece of oratory, it was quite good--pure War Party propaganda, calculated to make the soldiers delighted to risk their lives in this invasion--but it bore little resemblance either to the situation as Illyan understood it, or the reality of the many obstacles they had been discussing in the past week's planning meetings, all recorded on his chip. But then, there had never been any love lost between ImpSec and the War Party. At last it was over, the soldiers cheered, and the staff were taken off to eat lunch with the flag captain and his senior officers, where Vorrutyer and Serg were mercifully diluted by the conversation of the other men. Nonetheless he was glad when Vorkosigan made his escape, proposing a tour of the rest of the fleet.

However, after seven hours of non-stop shuttling from ship to ship, meeting officers and men in what was almost a small-scale Fleet Inspection, Illyan's relief at escaping Serg and Vorrutyer had long worn off. At first he had enjoyed some activity after the week of sitting a little way from the other aides in the briefing room, listening to the interminable and often circular arguments, but by the time they reached the fourth cruiser he was wondering how much more of this Vorkosigan was intending to do. Illyan almost thought he was trying to meet every soldier in the fleet in a single day, and he appeared to be indefatigable. The men seemed for the most part genuinely pleased to have the Hero of Komarr visit them, and Vorkosigan knew a surprising number of them by name.

But after Vorkosigan left the second troop carrier he ordered the shuttle pilot to take him back to the flagship.

"If this were a real inspection we could keep going, but it's not fair on the men to brass-harass them during the night-cycle without a bit more reason."

Illyan strapped himself into the shuttle beside Vorkosigan and refrained from pointing out that it wasn't only the men who would be inconvenienced by Vorkosigan chasing around the fleet all night. That was the trouble with this sort of work, you were wholly at the mercy of your subject in how often you got to sleep or eat, and Vorkosigan was looking likely to be difficult in that respect.

They reached the flagship and Illyan trailed Vorkosigan through the corridors towards officers' country. The flagship was one of the largest and most seriously armed cruisers in the fleet, with a crew of almost three hundred plus the staff officers and their retinue, and if it hadn't been for the plan he had studied beforehand Illyan would have been bewildered by the identical corridors and multiple levels.

As they came towards the staff quarters, a corporal emerged from a hatch and hurried towards them.

"Commodore Vorkosigan, sir?"

Illyan spun around; Vorkosigan turned more slowly. "Yes?"

"I've been assigned as your batman, sir. I'm sorry you didn't have someone earlier."

Illyan gazed vaguely at the man, images racing through his mind. The face was unfamiliar, but the voice ... he ran the quickest search he could through his chip.

Vorkosigan nodded. "Ah, that's excellent, you can report--"

"Actually, sir, I'm quite happy to continue." Illyan looked at the corporal, his expression a polite and unreadable blank. "As the Prince said, it's not as though I have any other duties to see to, and I need to monitor the Commodore in any case."

A shadow passed over the man's face, and Illyan knew his instincts were correct. Vorkosigan looked between them and frowned in puzzlement.

"Ah--well, um, if you wish, Lieutenant. Thank you, Corporal."

His anger not entirely concealed, the corporal turned away. Illyan set off again in the direction of Vorkosigan's cabin, but Vorkosigan grasped his arm.

"What are you playing at?" he demanded. "You can't really want to carry on as my batman."

"That was one of Grishnov's top men," Illyan said calmly. "I recognised his voice. He's almost certainly working for the chief political officer on this ship. If you do want him poking around your cabin, you can call him back..."

"Ah. I see." A sudden grin crossed Vorkosigan's face. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I still don't like spies, but I have to say they're much more useful when they're on your side."

Illyan returned the smile blandly and refrained from pointing out that he was not on Vorkosigan's side. He certainly wasn't on Grishnov's side, after all. And letting one of Grishnov's men get too near Vorkosigan would be sure to cause trouble.

They continued along the corridor to the staff officers' quarters, where Vorkosigan had been assigned a cabin. Observing everything, as was his duty, Illyan realised that Vorkosigan too was tired, though no-one without a memory chip would have noticed the slight slowing of his steps. He was just getting up hopes of leaving Vorkosigan soon to find his own cabin and a late supper when the door of a neighbouring cabin slid open and Admiral Vorrutyer appeared in the doorway.

"Aral, do come in." Vorrutyer raised the glass in his hand to Vorkosigan and smiled. Prince Serg emerged beside him.

"I've got work to do," Vorkosigan replied, not harshly but without looking at Vorrutyer.

"What, more important than keeping your commander company? Your work can wait a minute. I've been positively longing to have a little chat with you, now that we've got somewhere more cosy."

Reluctantly, Vorkosigan entered, and Illyan followed.

"Not you," said Vorrutyer in a much rougher tone, and waved a hand for Illyan to go. Illyan did not move. Vorrutyer glared at him. "This is a private conversation, Lieutenant."

"I'm sorry, sir, but my orders are clear."

"Screw your orders." Vorrutyer looked at Vorkosigan. "You can't want him watching every last step you make, Aral."

"I've given Lieutenant Illyan my word not to hinder him in performing his duties," said Vorkosigan in a measured tone, rather to Illyan's surprise. Illyan's presence had clearly chafed at him more than once on the light cruiser, though he had never been other than polite.

"Vorkosigan's word, eh?" Vorrutyer smirked. "Well, we can't argue with that. You'd better both come in. You don't have any Komarran friends, do you, Lieutenant?"

Illyan did not answer, and Vorkosigan, paling with anger, turned to leave, but Vorrutyer sealed the door behind him. "Oh, all's fair between friends, Aral, you won't hold a little joke against me."

"Of course not," said Vorkosigan, his tone flat and utterly at odds with his words. "What do you want, Ges?"

"What do I want? Well, I can't really say that, with your little friend here, can I? Or do you like being watched these days?"

Prince Serg, who had been listening to this interchange with amusement, spoke for the first time. "Don't you know? Aral's not interested in this kind of thing any more. Not now that he's found this girl..."

"A girl? Aral?" Vorrutyer's eyes lit. "You must tell us more. Is she good sport? As good as my dear little sister?"

Illyan stood woodenly, his back to the wall, and watched Vorkosigan pale still further. His chip brought up the details of Vorkosigan's long-dead--long-murdered?--wife.

"Though I know you couldn't please my sister, could you? She had to go elsewhere to get what she needed."

This, Illyan knew, was approximately true, not to mention causally linked to the adulterous woman's death. The passage detailing who had killed her had been blacked out in Vorkosigan's file, a secret only Negri knew. He didn't dare look at Vorkosigan.

"But I've taught you a bit since then. Perhaps you'll be able to hang on to this one a while longer."

Serg looked a little worried by the murderous tension growing in Vorkosigan's neck, but when it became clear that he was not going to disembowel Vorrutyer on the spot, he took a turn in the game.

"I think Aral will have to learn from her. She's a Betan."

"A Betan? But that's perfect. She won't mind sharing you with me--in fact, we can all have a go. Your taste is improving, Aral."

Illyan's reports had indeed mentioned a Betan woman, whom Vorkosigan had met on the newly discovered planet, though how Serg had found out about it he didn't know. Vorkosigan's face was dead white now. Illyan could only be grateful he wasn't letting Vorrutyer goad him into responding, or making threats. His non-reaction seemed to be irritating Vorrutyer, for he took a sip of his wine and tried harder, the mocking tone in his voice replaced with simple malice.

"There's no point playing the innocent with me, Aral. I know you too well. I've seen you, face down on the bed..." He launched into a vivid and excessively detailed description of exactly what he'd seen, making the Prince's face flush. Illyan wished fervently that the ship would blow up, that his biochip would malfunction, anything that would mean he would not have Vorrutyer's obscene word-picture stored in his head for the rest of his life.

In the middle of Vorrutyer's lurid words, Vorkosigan spun around and went out. Illyan hurried after him, trying not to scuttle. Vorkosigan's cabin was just across the corridor, and they both entered. The door sealed behind them, and Vorkosigan let out his breath with a hiss of pure rage.

"I could tear him apart with my bare--"

Illyan made a sharp silencing gesture, then pointed upwards. The light fixture was the traditional place to install bugs in a room like this, but there were likely others too, considering how interested the political officer would be in Vorkosigan. For a moment Vorkosigan glared at him in frustrated fury, as if he would turn his anger at Vorrutyer on Illyan, but instead he sat down heavily on the bed, clenching and unclenching his fists. Illyan eyed him doubtfully, then turned to the two cases of Vorkosigan's kit which sat in the middle of the floor. He might as well do his batman's duty. He opened one and took out a suit of space armour, a quick-donning pressure suit and several pairs of boots. With meticulous care, he went over them before putting them away. It must have been that corporal who had delivered them, and tampering seemed not unlikely. Everything was in good working order, however, and he began to fold it all away, making sure the pressure suit was the easiest thing to reach.

Vorkosigan got up and opened the other case, which contained his clothes and personal effects, and began to fling them into the drawers with rather less care. His movements spoke of unspent tensions, and Illyan frowned. If Vorrutyer and Serg were going to keep this up for the whole invasion--and there seemed little hope for improvement--it would be nothing short of a miracle if Vorkosigan escaped incriminating himself one way or another. Between them they seemed to know his every weakness, and had no scruples about attacking them. But what could Illyan do about it? Vorrutyer's mocking face flashed through his memory, and he suddenly wanted very much to do something to help Vorkosigan in this fight. It was, he assured himself, practically his duty to do so.

He looked around the room again. Prudence required that the bugs should stay in place, a second observer, even more objective than Illyan himself. But Vorkosigan was not supposed to be interfered with by the Political Officer or any of Grishnov's men. They were undoubtedly the placers of most of the bugs in the room. A small smile curved the corners of his mouth. Nobody would be able to argue with him. He was, after all, the Emperor's eyes and ears. What he saw, the Emperor saw. There was no need for other bugs.

Vorkosigan had turned to look at him curiously. Illyan drew a scanner from inside his jacket and went to the door. Carefully he began to scan the entrance, his eyes never neglecting a detail. When he found the first bug, positioned rather carelessly above the palm-lock, he took a second device from his jacket. Vorkosigan came over to see what he was doing, and his eyes lit as he recognised the tools.

Illyan pressed the button to fuzz the bug with a blast of static. Unexpectedly, he felt the same exhilaration and fear as when he fired his nerve disruptor in action. Perhaps his actions were within the letter of his orders, perhaps not. But he was going to do this anyway.

He went over the rest of the room with great attention. There were, he realised, two sets of bugs. One he recognised as standard Ministry of Political Education issue. The other were ImpSec issue. The Prince's guard detail, most likely. When he had gone over every inch of the room and its adjoining washroom, he counted the bugs. Eleven. He leaned on the washroom doorjamb and replayed his memories of the scan, checking his method, looking at each movement from every perspective. Vorkosigan waited. Illyan rose and went back to the bed, scanned the pillow and found a twelfth sewn into the hem. He went over his memories again.

"That's all of them," he said finally.

Vorkosigan let out his breath slowly, and although he said nothing he allowed himself to lean back in a more relaxed posture. Illyan felt his last doubts about whether this had been the right thing to do evaporate. It was a small thing, but perhaps it would help him get Vorkosigan through this invasion uncompromised.


	5. Chapter 5

Early in the following day-cycle, the comm panel in his cabin chimed, and Illyan moved to answer it. He didn't speak at once, since his comm was set to ring whenever Commodore Vorkosigan's did, so that he could listen in to his conversations in real-time if he wished. But the face that materialised there was the exec's, Commander Venne, and he looked strained and tense.

"Lieutenant Illyan?" Venne said. "The Chief Political Officer would like you to report to him at once." He looked at Illyan as if he expected Illyan to refuse. But it would be better to get this confrontation over with once and for all.

"Very well," he said to Venne. "I'll be over soon." Venne didn't quite sigh in relief, but it was close.

Illyan did not hurry, though, and had the reward of seeing the CPO, Major Dewitt, looking impatient when he arrived.

"Interference with the ship's surveillance system is unacceptable," Dewitt said without beating around the bush. "A new set of bugs will be placed in Commodore Vorkosigan's cabin."

"Then I will be put to the trouble of fuzzing them again," said Illyan. "It's good practice." He paused. "I am an ImpSec officer and my acts do not fall under your jurisdiction. Further, observing Commodore Vorkosigan is my task, given to me by the Emperor. Your assistance will not be required."

Dewitt's lips tightened, but he did not rise to Illyan's bait. "I will make a formal protest to Captain Negri," he said.

Illyan only smiled faintly. "By all means."

"See here, Lieutenant," Dewitt said after giving him a frustrated stare, "you may have been given an absurd degree of latitude by Captain Negri--"

"By the Emperor," Illyan corrected gently

"--but--" Dewitt broke off as Illyan's interjection registered, his self-protection instinct kicking in before he could commit the folly of criticising the Emperor aloud in the presence of an ImpSec agent.

Illyan waited in silence for a moment, but when Dewitt said nothing more he moved a little. "Is that all, sir?" Serious rudeness, from a junior officer to a senior, but it would underline the difference between the Ministry and ImpSec.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant," Dewitt said, with a certain irony in his tone. Illyan went, and didn't hear anything more from the Political Officer or his men about the bugs.

*

Illyan soon grew used to life aboard the flagship. He shadowed Commodore Vorkosigan everywhere: in the officers' mess, in meetings, in the tactics room, as he chased from ship to ship on inspections and reviews. Everywhere he went he received the same worried reaction as men saw his collar tabs and searched their consciences. When word got round about his memory chip the reaction grew more pronounced, especially since the description of his abilities grew in the telling until there were men aboard the fleet who believed him to be all but omniscient. Illyan had never done an open operation like this before, where everyone knew he was a spy, and he found he rather enjoyed it. This must be what it felt like to be Captain Negri.

It was as well that there was something he enjoyed about it, since neither monitoring exceptionally dull meetings nor listening with a blank face to Vorrutyer and Serg's guerrilla conversation tactics afterwards were particularly pleasant. He thought wryly of the old saying about a military life being made up of long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of pure terror. Not that Vorrutyer and Serg provided him with pure terror: vicarious embarrassment and personal irritation were more accurate, and mercifully they never quite equalled the lengths they had gone to on the first night. Vorkosigan rapidly developed the habit of arranging important meetings immediately after meetings with Vorrutyer, so that he wouldn't have to hang around and engage him in conversations.

He had just managed one of these escapes, this time to a vid-link conference with Colonel Vorville, the commander of the ground base where the infantry were quartered awaiting the planetary invasion. That conference finished, he and Illyan were heading to the mess for lunch when they encountered a tall soldier in black fatigues and sergeant's tabs. On seeing him, Vorkosigan smiled a little and stopped.

"Sergeant Bothari."

Sergeant Bothari did not stop at once, as a non-com addressed by a staff officer might be expected to do, but took another step, forcing Vorkosigan to turn to speak to him.

"Sir," he said at last. His gaze flickered suspiciously to Illyan. Illyan watched, expressionless, considering Vorrutyer's batman. What he saw startled him. Bothari's eyes were full of pain and fury, and he had the appearance of a man holding himself on a short rein. There was something else about his expression that sparked one of Illyan's older memories, from before the chip. He had been returning from an assignment in one of the more dangerous areas of the city when a man had jumped him. Illyan had been more than able to fight back, but the man had continued to attack him long after an ordinary mugger would have chosen to retreat. In the end Illyan had been forced to throttle the man until he fell unconscious before calling a cleanup squad. The ImpSec investigators had reported that this was a random attack and the man had been wanted for several previous murders. Bothari's face bore a hint of the same chilling quality. What had possessed Vorrutyer to choose such a man for his batman?

"I'm surprised to see you here," Vorkosigan said, his voice neutral, neither indicating weakness nor challenge. Whether he had studied psychology as Illyan had or not, this was the right way to handle such a man, and Illyan relaxed a fraction. Unlikely, too, that a man who was totally out of control would have been kept even in the Barrayaran army. But why was Vorkosigan particularly interested in him?

"Admiral Vorrutyer requested me, sir." That put paid to Illyan's half-formed theory that this assignment had been another of the Prince's practical jokes, giving Vorrutyer a dangerous psychotic for a batman.

Vorkosigan looked troubled. For Bothari or Vorrutyer? "I don't suppose I'll have much chance to get you in the practice ring here."

"No, sir."

Vorkosigan practiced sparring with this man? Well, it was probably very good training. But Bothari was far taller and heavier than Vorkosigan. Illyan tried and failed to imagine Vorkosigan successfully throwing the sergeant.

"Ah well. Carry on, Sergeant."

Bothari saluted and strode off. Illyan glanced at Vorkosigan, an eyebrow raised.

"I don't like it," Vorkosigan said with a scowl. "I thought I'd finally got Ges' claws out of him. But after this we'll be back to the start again. Poor sod." He began walking again. "It would have been nice to get some practice in with him, too," he added. He paused and turned to look meditatively at Illyan. "ImpSec men go in for unarmed combat, don't you?"

Illyan nodded warily.

"Care to go a few rounds with me? I can't really enter the tournaments with the men, not now I'm on the staff, but it would be good to do something other than stare at comconsoles."

Illyan hesitated. He would like to get in some practice himself. He kept in training on his own, but it was hard to maintain a true fighting edge without someone else to work with. But was the man he was spying on really an appropriate person to practise with? Then again, who else was there? And he and Vorkosigan were reasonably well matched--he was slightly taller, but Vorkosigan was more heavily built.

"If you like, sir."

So after another protracted meeting with the captains and first officers of all the battle cruisers, Illyan and Vorkosigan made their way to the gym, found an empty practice room, laid out a mat and began to run through some warm-ups.

"There's no-one to referee," Illyan commented.

"So I see. Well, I trust you to fight fair."

Illyan's lip curled as his memory chip filed that remark by key word. "Captain Negri says there's no such thing as fighting fair, just men who survive and men who get killed."

"Ha. Well, he's right, but since we both have to work tomorrow I suggest we stick to the standard sparring rules."

Illyan smiled and gave a brief nod. He hadn't really been planning to try gouging, biting or any of the other non-standard, not to say illegal, moves ImpSec agents practiced, not on the Commodore.

"Mind you, practicing with Bothari teaches you not to pull your punches... you ready?"

They faced each other and bowed. Almost as soon as he started to move, Illyan could see how Vorkosigan had managed to throw Bothari, and also that he was telling the truth about not pulling his punches. He had expected that his lighter weight and fifteen-year age advantage would make him the more agile, but instead Vorkosigan moved with speed as well as power and experience. But Negri's training was good, and Illyan had the first throw, though Vorkosigan was up again before he could follow it through. They each had several throws before Vorkosigan finally pinned Illyan in a nasty choke-hold and Illyan tapped out, spots dancing before his eyes.

"Your point," he said when he could speak. He got up slightly more slowly than he needed, fast-forwarding through the round looking for weaknesses on Vorkosigan's part. He spotted one as they bowed again, and kept at a distance, trying to distract Vorkosigan with feints and lunges. But Vorkosigan was too wily to be caught by such obvious manoeuvres, and Illyan had to give him some real openings before Vorkosigan could be lured. He only just managed to break away from an arm-lock Vorkosigan was trying to force him into, but then he saw his moment, and this time it was Vorkosigan who tapped out as Illyan immobilised him with a nerve-stunning blow.

They bowed for the third time, and Illyan got in a kick, high and hard, as Vorkosigan moved in for another attack. Slightly to his surprise, Vorkosigan went down at once. Illyan sprang to follow through his advantage, but Vorkosigan did not move. Replaying the last few seconds in his head, Illyan saw that as Vorkosigan had twisted the kick had caught him at the back of the head. At once he stooped beside Vorkosigan and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sir?"

All of a sudden Vorkosigan seemed to levitate from the mat. Off-guard and unbalanced, Illyan fell easily and was pinned down in a second. Vorkosigan held him for a moment, then let him up.

"I thought you were hurt!" Illyan said hotly, the words escaping before he could catch them.

Vorkosigan surveyed him and smiled a little. "I was stunned for a moment, and if there'd been a referee I'm sure he'd have called the point in your favour." His face grew serious. "But if I'd been a real enemy you'd be dead. After you think you've won is the most dangerous moment. I've seen men killed, either through ignoring enemies they think are out of action, or even, like just now, through compassion." Vorkosigan sat up and rubbed his head ruefully. "Good kick, though."

Illyan pulled him to his feet, his anger fading. "Thank you," he said, his voice ironic. He surveyed Vorkosigan quickly--blows to the head could be dangerous--but he seemed none the worse for it. "For your reassurance, I would not have done that in a real combat situation."

"Maybe, but what you do in practice forms your habits, and that's not a habit you want to get into."

 _Perhaps I should have left you lying there with a possible head injury?_ Illyan wanted to retort, but did not. Instead he nodded. After all, Vorkosigan was correct in what he said.

They kept up the sparring practice each evening during the days of preparation for the attack. The points were split fairly evenly between them overall, though Illyan had a certain advantage in familiarising himself with Vorkosigan's style. Vorkosigan had realised this quickly and had taken to trying ever more unusual moves and unpredictable approaches, almost never repeating himself. The key to fighting was in the mind, Illyan knew, and this time he had a worthy foe.

The day before the attack, Admiral Vorhalas accompanied them down to the gym. Illyan had offered to cede his place to him, but Vorhalas had smiled and shaken his head.

"I'm not up to Aral's class in this game. Too much time spent sitting in committee meetings. I'm beginning to think we did you a good turn, Aral, sending you off for some active service instead of keeping you at headquarters. I don't think any of the General Staff could get close to you." He glanced at Illyan. "Well, except Captain Negri."

Illyan nodded acknowledgement. More so than in any other branch of the Service, in ImpSec each man from the lowliest tech to Captain Negri himself kept in hard physical training, armed and unarmed combat, in preparation for some terrible day when he might be the only one standing between the Emperor and some enemy.

Vorhalas offered to referee, and Illyan and Vorkosigan faced off as they were accustomed. Illyan read the almost imperceptible twitch in Vorkosigan' face that meant a surprise was coming, and managed to dodge it, but realised too late that he had left himself vulnerable. A moment later he was on his back with Vorkosigan kneeling on his chest. He tapped out, they rose, bowed and began again.

In the middle of the next round Illyan became aware that Vorkosigan's attention had flickered from him to something else, and his spy's instincts made him glance around as well rather than take advantage of the opportunity. Admiral Vorrutyer had entered and was crossing to where Vorhalas stood. But Vorkosigan was still fighting, and so Illyan kept his attention on the point and managed to get his revenge for the previous round. Vorhalas called the point rather quickly.

"Nicely done, Lieutenant," Admiral Vorrutyer said as Illyan released Vorkosigan from the armlock he had seized. Vorkosigan stood up stiffly, his face becoming as blank as Illyan knew his own to be. Vorrutyer smiled at them. "But really, Aral, if you wanted someone to, ah, roll about on the mat with, you should have asked me. I'd have been happy to keep you company." He took off his jacket. "We could even have a round now, though I do need to talk to Rulf afterwards."

Vorkosigan's face remained blank. "I must finish this with Illyan first--a tie-breaker." He glanced at Vorhalas, who nodded to them to begin. Vorkosigan looked at Illyan. There was some message in his eyes, but Illyan couldn't read it. But he had no doubt that letting Vorkosigan and Vorrutyer spar together would be a serious mistake, one of those situations he was supposed to prevent. From the look of it, Vorkosigan was in full agreement with him.

They began again, and Illyan realised that Vorkosigan was playing this very differently, spinning it out with many entirely unnecessary moves and inadequate attempts at holds or blows. Illyan played along, though it would have been easy to finish it. Then Vorkosigan gave him an obvious opening for a hard throw, and Illyan took advantage of it, sending Vorkosigan flying. Though he had seen Vorkosigan land on his feet and moving from worse throws, Illyan was not entirely surprised when instead he landed awkwardly and lay still a moment before beginning to move. Deciding that he was supposed to win this round, Illyan followed through and a moment later Vorhalas called the point for him again. Vorhalas was managing not to look surprised at the sudden decline in the quality of their fighting, and Vorrutyer seemed too busy ogling Vorkosigan to notice.

Vorkosigan was grimacing a trifle theatrically as he sat up, and Illyan understood what his plan was. He extended his hand to pull Vorkosigan to his feet. Feigning an injury was harder than many people thought, and he deliberately stood partially screening Vorkosigan from Vorrutyer's view until Vorkosigan got his story and his body working together.

"Are you all right, sir?" Illyan cued him.

"Fine," Vorkosigan said shortly. He began to get up and winced, not entirely convincingly, as he moved his left leg. Then his hand clamped around Illyan's wrist and he gave a genuine wince as he attempted to put his weight on his leg. Illyan managed not to snort. The other drawback with feigning an injury was the risk of doing yourself a real one. He replayed Vorkosigan's over-enthusiastic fall and saw the tell-tale wrench of his knee. Vorkosigan released his wrist a moment later and glowered at him, reading the faint amusement in his eyes.

"So, is it my turn now?" Vorrutyer asked, coming forward.

"Aral, if you're hurt..." Vorhalas began, evidently also piecing together the plan.

"I'm fine," Vorkosigan repeated, limping to join Vorrutyer. Illyan blinked, then realised this was standard Vor behaviour. Vorkosigan couldn't lose face by withdrawing from Vorrutyer's challenge. He stood back, hoping Vorkosigan knew what he was doing.

Vorrutyer looked him up and down and a smile more nearly genuine than anything Illyan had seen before crossed his face. "Idiot," he said. "You can't do anything like that. What have you done to your leg?"

"It's nothing. A strained knee. You wanted a round." Vorkosigan moved into a formal stance, his lips tightly compressed. Vorrutyer crossed to him, and before either Vorhalas or Illyan could interfere he had put an arm around Vorkosigan and was--unnecessarily, Illyan thought--helping him to a bench. Vorkosigan's expression became even more frozen, but to Illyan's surprise he did not protest or attempt to break away.

There was far too much going on here beneath the surface. He flicked through his memories of Vorkosigan's file, searching for all the mentions of his relationship with Vorrutyer, but the details were sparse. They'd been lovers before Vorkosigan's marriage, then again for some years after Lady Vorkosigan's death. There wasn't much to go on, but with the rest of what Illyan knew of Vorrutyer, he didn't think it had been a simple or particularly pleasant relationship. But Vorkosigan must not fall back into old habits now.

"Let me see..." Vorrutyer stooped over Vorkosigan and began to probe his knee, gently at first but with increasing pressure. Illyan came nearer, trying to analyse the scene. Vorrutyer's eyes were dilated and fixed not on his hands but on Vorkosigan's face. Vorkosigan sat perfectly still, though if he really had wrenched his knee there was no way what Vorrutyer was doing could not be hurting him. The hairs prickled on Illyan's neck. A little too loudly, he said, "Do you think you should go to sickbay, sir?"

Vorhalas, who was looking worried, echoed this, and added, "And did you say there was something you needed to discuss with me, Ges?"

For a moment Vorrutyer glanced up, angry. His hands tightened, and Illyan heard Vorkosigan inhale sharply, only a tiny sound, but enough to focus Vorrutyer's attention on him again.

"Ah, you _have_ hurt it," he said, his tone sweet and solicitous. Illyan held his hands loosely by his sides, presenting an unruffled front. The fact that he wanted to try some of the throws he'd been practicing with Vorkosigan on Vorrutyer was not relevant, not helpful. He ran through possible distractions in his head. Nothing seemed certain enough to work, and the last attempts had not helped. He realised Vorhalas was looking at him for an answer.

The door of the gym opened again and Illyan looked up hopefully, but his heart sank as Prince Serg entered.

"Dammit, Ges, I've been waiting ten minutes." He looked at Vorrutyer stooped over Vorkosigan, and his eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you doing?"

Illyan felt a surge of satisfaction as Vorrutyer lifted his head and released Vorkosigan, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. He did not answer Serg's question, but instead turned rapidly to Vorhalas.

"You shouldn't be wasting your time down here. Colonel Rutgers wants to talk to you about the disposition of his ground troops and exactly when you want to start shuttling them up to the carriers, and that's your responsibility to sort out."

Vorhalas blinked at this sudden attack. "Ah, er, yes, certainly."

Prince Serg was still gazing suspiciously at Vorkosigan. He strode over to Vorrutyer. "What are you doing down here?" he repeated.

"Unarmed combat practice," Vorkosigan answered for him, his face blank and calm.

Serg gave him a disdainful look. "Well, I hope you enjoyed it. It's the only fighting you're going to get to do on this expedition."

Vorrutyer moved towards the Prince. "We'd better go deal with the senior quartermasters, the meeting will be starting soon," he said, his body language radiating a desire to put this incident as far from him as humanly possible. Illyan watched the jealous light in Serg's eyes fade as Vorrutyer steered him back towards the door. Vorhalas trailed after them, glancing anxiously over his shoulder at Illyan and Vorkosigan. Vorkosigan gave him a little nod, and the trio left the gym. For a while there was silence. Then Illyan turned to Vorkosigan, but stopped himself from asking what Vorkosigan had thought he was doing. There hadn't been a compromising scene, there wasn't a problem.

Vorkosigan looked up at him. "Try not to attract Ges' attention. I know how to deal with him. I don't expect he'll bother you unprovoked, but if you get between him and something he wants he might turn nasty."

"My orders, sir, are to prevent you, er, getting into difficulties with him, or any of the other staff," Illyan said firmly. "I don't want trouble any more than you do, but I must carry out my orders."

"I can look after myself," Vorkosigan said, a flicker of anger in his voice.

"I don't doubt that, sir, but my orders--"

"Yes, all right." Vorkosigan began to push himself to his feet. "I suppose I had better get this seen to." He took a halting step and swore under his breath. "Damn Ges and his little head-games." He limped off to sickbay, Illyan trailing him, wondering how many more times Vorkosigan's old history with Ges Vorrutyer was going to cause trouble here. Too many, he feared.


	6. Chapter 6

"Damnation," Vorhalas muttered, flipping through the flimsies. "Do you have the authorisations for the jumpscouts, Aral?"

Vorkosigan ran through his own pile. "I don't think so. Lieutenant?"

Illyan pursed his lips. Vorkosigan tried from time to time to make use of Illyan's memory in his work, and it really wasn't quite right for Illyan to permit it. But this was easy, and he couldn't see any harm in it.

"It wasn't discussed in the meeting, sir," he said, scanning back through his chip recordings. "I haven't seen it."

Vorhalas sighed. "Well, we can't send them out without the proper authorisation."

"They have to start now," Vorkosigan said. "As soon as possible. We can't finalise the plans without good data."

Vorhalas reached for the comconsole. "I'll have a word with Vorrutyer." But his comconsole message went unanswered. "He must have gone to bed," he said.

"We'd better get down there, then," said Vorkosigan. "It won't take a minute." He stood up. Vorhalas frowned at him.

"Aral, perhaps I'd better go on my own…"

"I want to stretch my legs," Vorkosigan replied. "And you might want some, um, backup."

Illyan hesitated, decided that if Vorhalas was present there would be limited opportunities for trouble, and made no comment. They hurried from the conference room to the staff officers' quarters, and Vorhalas knocked politely on Admiral Vorrutyer's door.

Again, there was no answer. Vorkosigan knocked, rather less politely. Finally a voice called, "Shove off, we don't need anyone else."

"Sorry to wake you," Vorhalas said, against the evidence as far as Illyan could tell, "this won't take long."

"Later," Vorrutyer called back.

"It's urgent," said Vorkosigan, "so stop what you're doing for five minutes and do your job."

From within came Vorrutyer's voice in further protests.

"I don't give a fuck," Vorkosigan cut across this. "We need your authorisation codes _now_ , and if you won't come out we're coming in."

Vorhalas, nodding reluctant agreement, entered an override code and palmed the door open. Illyan followed hard on Vorkosigan's heels, then nearly collided with Vorhalas, who had come to a dead halt barely a step into the room. Illyan stared. The Prince lay on the large bed, shirtless and barefoot, propped up on one elbow. Vorrutyer was dressed, but his eyes glittered with intoxication, drugs or alcohol or most likely both. As for the third person in the room--Illyan hastily looked away. Sergeant Bothari was completely naked, aroused, and standing motionless on the far side of the bed, obviously heavily drugged. Illyan's brain ground to a standstill.

"Aral, darling," drawled Vorrutyer, "do you want to play too?"

Vorhalas, rigid and with his gaze fixed on a point on the wall above the bed, said, "Your authorisation is required on the orders to launch the wormhole scouts. It was omitted from our earlier meeting."

"Wormhole scouts?" echoed Vorrutyer. "How very tedious and worthy."

"But essential," said Vorkosigan. Less inhibited than Vorhalas, he crossed to the console, booted it up and began to pull up the relevant files. Illyan followed him, trying not to let his worry show. With a shrug, Vorrutyer went to join him, his walk a lazy swagger. Illyan tensed as he came near, but Vorrutyer's attention was fixed solely on Vorkosigan

"I think," said Vorrutyer, "I should get payment for this."

"You already have a salary," Vorkosigan returned. "Just enter the damned codes and then you can go back to your game."

"The payment I want," Vorrutyer insisted, leaning right into Vorkosigan's personal space, "is a kiss from you."

Illyan swallowed. Vorkosigan took a step backwards, but was trapped against the wall. His eyes alight, Vorrutyer pressed forwards again. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of Vorkosigan, bracketing him.

"You know," Vorrutyer breathed, "you've been asking for this for weeks."

Nothing Illyan could think of to do would make this any better, and Vorkosigan wasn't looking to him for help. Vorrutyer leaned in and kissed Vorkosigan on the mouth, hard and prolonged. Vorkosigan made a strange sound, half rage and half unwilling pleasure. Prince Serg began to cackle hysterically. Illyan held himself in check, waiting for Vorkosigan to act, but it was Vorhalas who moved first, his fist rising to swipe Vorrutyer. Vorkosigan's hand came up to grab Vorhalas' wrist, blocking the blow, and he twisted away. Vorrutyer stepped back.

"You disgusting--unnatural--do your damned job, Vorrutyer," Vorhalas snarled.

Breathing hard, Vorrutyer bent over the console, typed in some codes and said, "There. That wasn't too difficult, was it?"

Vorkosigan spat and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Without another word he marched out, trailed by Vorhalas and Illyan.

In the corridor, Vorhalas burst out, "In nine hours we jump into Escobaran space, and _that's_ what our Admirals are doing?"

Vorkosigan merely said, "Such naivety, Rulf." He turned into his quarters, dismissing Illyan with a nod. "We jump at 0600. Get some rest, you'll need it."

*

Illyan sat on his bunk, needle in hand. Some things never changed. Back on old Earth, he had read, soldiers and naval crew had once been expected to alter and repair their kits, and even now that the computerised supply units could, in theory, disgorge a perfect new uniform, exactly tailored to your size, you were still expected to carry out minor repairs yourself.

It was not his own kit he was repairing, but Vorkosigan's dress uniform jacket. He hadn't considered this aspect of a batman's duty. Vorkosigan had not exactly ordered him to do this, he had simply left the torn jacket with the rest of his kit, presumably trusting that some minion or other would sort it out. Illyan was reminded that this was a man who had grown up with servants and Armsmen to smooth out the minor problems of life for him. And Illyan's own thrifty upbringing had not permitted him to discard an almost-perfect jacket just because the sleeve was torn. Instead he was painstakingly mending it, the stitches all but invisible.

His chip replayed how the jacket had been torn. They had jumped into Escobaran space and found that whilst the Escos had not yet located the wormhole, they had managed to identify the correct sector and had a small fleet waiting beyond the range of the jumpscout's sensors. The Barrayaran fleet had jumped through as quickly as possible, but their last ships were still entering Escobaran space when the Escos arrived in force, and the flagship had come under fire.

Vorrutyer and Vorhalas had mustered a counter-attack, but the Escos had attacked with almost suicidal desperation, hoping to stop the Barrayarans before the fleet could get a strong position in their space. Vorkosigan had been saddled with the job of keeping the Prince out of the Admirals' hair whilst they updated their plans on the fly, since Prince Serg was prone to adding his own, generally unwise, embellishments to their orders. When the flagship had come under fire, the gravity had failed briefly, and the Prince had panicked and grabbed Vorkosigan's arm as he began to drift upwards. Illyan had hastily hauled them back, the ship had lurched as the gravity came back on and Vorkosigan had fallen against a bulkhead. Slowing the replay on his chip, Illyan saw the sleeve of Vorkosigan's jacket catch on the emergency first-aid case. It had been the last attack the Escos had managed before they had been put on the run, but it had left Illyan with an extra job.

He worked his way along the tear and turned his thoughts to the current situation. They had a firm foothold in Escobaran space now, they had destroyed several Escobaran ships and had taken prisoners from the survivors in their life-rafts, something that had pleased Vorkosigan. His voice spoke from Illyan's memory. "Sooner or later they'll take some of our men prisoner, and we'll need some leverage for an exchange." More of Vorkosigan's long-range planning, thinking ahead to the contingencies of the defeat he anticipated. Though Illyan couldn't see how the Escos could push them out of the system now, not unless another planetary force muscled into the war.

He pressed the needle through the stiff fabric a final time, knotted the thread and cut it off. Done. Now perhaps he could get some sleep. He had just shrugged off his tunic, taken off his boots and made a brief, automatic bow towards the ikon that he had, in memory of home, put up above his bunk, when a loud buzz cut through his hopeful thoughts. What did Commodore Vorkosigan want now? He pulled the tunic and boots back on again, performed the quick check of his appearance that had been an ingrained habit since his time in the cadets--collar straight, rank tabs in, zipper up, boots laced, hair at least presentable--and hurried off to Vorkosigan's cabin.

Vorkosigan was standing in the doorway looking down the corridor; when Illyan came into sight he strode out to meet him.

"We're going to the tac room. Now that everything's over, Ges has decided I can be trusted with overseeing the repairs." Vorkosigan smiled wryly. "It's something to do, at least."

Illyan nodded, sighing inwardly. No sleep for him tonight. Irregular hours and long wakeful nights were a discipline he was trained to endure, but he didn't have to like it. They proceeded through the ship, which was quiet and calm after the battle.

In the tactics room, a few yawning officers manned various comconsoles around them, gulping coffee. Commodore Couer, sitting at the main tactical computer absorbed in his own work, greeted Vorkosigan with a smile. Vorkosigan returned him a short nod and took another station nearby. Illyan pulled up another chair and sat back, folding his arms and watching through slitted eyes as Vorkosigan began running through the status reports from the cruisers, checking positions, reading the casualty lists, summing up the damage and sending out new orders. Illyan felt a certain admiration. Despite the tediousness of the task, Vorkosigan applied a ferocious concentration to it and had an ability to pick up details and put them together that made Illyan half-wonder if he had his own memory chip to keep track of it all.

Illyan sat by as the night cycle wore on, expending no more energy than he needed but ready to come to instant alert if necessary. Vorkosigan wasn't speaking to anyone, wasn't doing anything he was supposed to watch and remember. Though it would all be stored on the chip anyway. Negri could decide what information he wanted to hear when this was over.

Vorkosigan made a decisive stab at the console keyboard and sat back. "There. That's done." He stood up and stretched. Illyan swallowed a yawn and sat up straight. Vorkosigan fetched a coffee bulb from the dispenser machine and began to wander around the tac room, looking over the shoulders of the junior officers. Illyan stood up and positioned himself in the centre of the room, tracking Vorkosigan's movements.

Vorkosigan stopped at the main tactical display and looked over Couer's shoulder. Couer turned. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

Vorkosigan frowned and bent to look more closely. "How up to date is this?" he asked in return.

"The lag to the furthest ships is five minutes right now."

Vorkosigan grunted. Illyan went to look over his shoulder, but whatever it was that Vorkosigan was seeing, it was obscure to Illyan. The main display showed the current positions of the fleet, guarding the wormhole back to fleet base and starting to radiate out into the Escobaran system, and an inset display indicated the positions of the main Escobaran fleet approaching, trying to manoeuvre into position to fight back.

"That can't be right," Vorkosigan muttered.

"What do you mean?" Couer asked. "It's all consistent with orders."

"Yes, I can see that..." Vorkosigan sat down in the chair next to Couer and began to call up the historical data for the past six hours, looking through the ship movements. "Ges must be crazy," he said at last. "Well, that's nothing--"

"Sir," Illyan interjected in a low, warning voice. Vorkosigan gave him a faintly resentful look, but refrained from making further compromising remarks. Illyan watched him narrowly. That was the first time he'd had to nudge Vorkosigan so openly. Couer looked alarmed.

"This isn't going to work," Vorkosigan began again a moment later, choosing his words carefully. "We're far too vulnerable here. Look." He sketched out a plan on the console. "We need these ships to move here," he said, gesturing with the light-pen, "to close off these holes--" another stab of the pen. "Otherwise when these Escos--" stab "--get here they'll slice right through our supply lines. These ships in the defensive array are still partly disabled from the first counter-attack, they can't hold the Escos off on their own. I just went through their latest reports."

"Yes," Couer said. "I see." He hesitated, looking at Vorkosigan. Illyan watched intently, noting not the tactical discussions, which were all beyond his experience, but the interactions between the men. Couer was the youngest officer on the flag staff, and obviously admired Vorkosigan. The chain of command on this fleet was sometimes inclined to tangle around Vorkosigan, partly because of his own--unconscious, Illyan suspected--aura of command, and partly because most of the junior officers and almost all the enlisted men thought of him as the great Admiral, the Hero of Komarr. So far Vorkosigan hadn't crossed any lines, but he'd come close.

"Surely Admiral Vorrutyer would have thought of this?" Couer said. "This set-up is exactly what he ordered."

"Ges was always stupid about supply lines," Vorkosigan said. "We need to talk to Lister on the _General Vorbataille_ here--"

Illyan cleared his throat, and both men glanced at him. A direct confrontation with Vorkosigan was the last thing he wanted, but if Vorkosigan took another step down this path he'd have no choice. He called up the time, and felt relief fill him as he saw a way to dodge the problem.

"Admiral Vorrutyer will be coming on duty very shortly," he said, shifting his body language to make it seem that he had been a part of this discussion all along. "I suggest you wait and consult with him before taking any action."

Couer gave him a wary look, scanning the Horus-eye pins on Illyan's collar. Vorkosigan's brow lowered. "The Escobarans are approaching. Delay now could cost us our ships."

Illyan knew Vorkosigan had to realise what he was doing. He held Vorkosigan's eye as if they were about to begin a round of sparring, projecting confidence and certainty. _Back down, for God's sake, Commodore. I don't want to be forced to jerk your chain in public._

"We ought to work it all out properly before we do anything," Couer said. Illyan gave a tiny nod. Couer was a decent officer and strategist, but his main role on the staff--aside from his official work in keeping track of intelligence and communications--was as insulation between the more forceful personalities. He could be relied upon to temporise, compromise and otherwise bend to the prevailing wind, and right now Illyan was prevailing.

"Very well," Vorkosigan said, now ignoring Illyan pointedly. Illyan folded his arms and took a deliberate step back. Coming up with an alternative plan to present to the Admiral would not compromise Vorkosigan.

Vorkosigan was describing his ideas to Couer in a forceful voice when Illyan looked around, feeling the slight change in air pressure. The door to the tac room slid closed again behind Admiral Vorrutyer, who looked at Vorkosigan and Couer bent together over the tactical computer and raised his eyebrows.

"Heads up, sir," Illyan whispered.

A moment later Admiral Vorrutyer's hand cupped Vorkosigan's shoulder in a kind of caress. "What's got you all hot and bothered, Aral?"

Vorkosigan swivelled in his chair, twisting out of Vorrutyer's grip. "There you are," he said. "I need to talk to you about this. The Escos are going to slice us to bits, the way we're positioned. We need to move these ships--" He displayed his plan. "You can see the Escos moving here--there's not a lot of time."

To Illyan's surprise, Vorrutyer looked closely at Vorkosigan's plans. "Interesting," he said. "You are very conscientious, Aral. But I don't think you need to be concerned." Deliberately, he put his hand back on Vorkosigan's shoulder. "I have this under control. Why don't you go off-duty and get some sleep?"

"But--"

"I'll take your ... worries ... into consideration," Vorrutyer said. "Now, Couer." He turned away dismissively, his attention on receiving the hand-over from Commodore Couer. Illyan gave Vorkosigan a pointed look and moved away. His brows down, Vorkosigan followed him out.

"If this goes wrong," Vorkosigan muttered to him, "it'll be because you--"

"I'm doing my job," Illyan cut across this. "Tell me what you were going to do wasn't compromising as all hell."

Vorkosigan only swore, but under his breath. Reasonable enough, considering the provocation, Illyan thought. He followed Vorkosigan back to his cabin, yawning. Vorkosigan gave him a measuring look.

"Whatever happens, those Escos weren't advancing on us because they wanted to have a deep-space picnic," he observed. "You'd better stick with me; I might need you at very short notice. You can have the bunk. I'm going to get up-to-date on the latest from Fleet Engineering."

"I'll be fine," Illyan said. He followed Vorkosigan into the cabin and took out his scanner. He'd run the check for bugs every day since they'd reached the flagship, and hadn't found anything since the first day, but he had no intention of placing any trust in that. "It's clean," he said after quartering and re-quartering the cabin. He checked his own monitors on the comconsole, but there was nothing of interest.

Vorkosigan sat down to work. After watching him for a few minutes, Illyan said, "I'll fetch breakfast, then, shall I?"

"Breakfast?" Vorkosigan echoed blankly. "Oh. Yes. Thank you."

The brisk walk to the mess woke Illyan up a little. He returned with a full tray and ate perched on the side of Vorkosigan's bunk, watching idly over Vorkosigan's shoulder at the work he was doing. Vorkosigan had finished reviewing reports and was tinkering with one of his retreat plans, one Illyan didn't recognise. It wasn't much like anything Illyan had seen before, but then he wasn't a space strategist.

Illyan stretched out on the bunk, but did not permit himself to sleep. He might, on a personal level, feel that he could trust Vorkosigan, but nonetheless he was here as Vorkosigan's spy. He watched drowsily as Vorkosigan switched back and forth between his retreat plans and the current tactical situation. Outside of the tac room and the huge console desk that was used for making strategic fleet-wide decisions, the schema Illyan could see over Vorkosigan's shoulder was necessarily abbreviated and rather delayed, but Vorkosigan seemed to find it useful.

Abruptly, the visuals split and the strained face of Admiral Vorhalas appeared in the central panel of the display. Illyan sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Ah, Aral, you're still up, good. You'd better get down here. The Escos are starting a new run, and it looks like they're going to slice right through our lines. They're focusing on our most vulnerable ships. So far we're holding, but it's going to be close. We might need to implement Contingency Blue at any moment. You'll need to be ready."

" _No._ "

Illyan jumped at Vorkosigan's tone.

"We can't pull out. Not now, it's too soon."

"We may not have much choice. Come here and see for yourself." There was a disturbance in the background of Vorhalas' comm pickup, and he gave Vorkosigan a dismissing wave and vanished. Vorkosigan shut down the comconsole, stood up and went to the door, Illyan following.

"Why don't you want to retreat, sir? I thought you were expecting this to fall apart at any moment," he asked as they hurried down the corridor.

Vorkosigan shot him a ferocious look, and Illyan wished he hadn't spoken.

"I don't have to explain everything I think to you," he growled.

Illyan quickly looked away, unthreatening, subordinate, but his mind was steadily processing. There was a false note in Vorkosigan's words, a hint that his anger was a little exaggerated to push Illyan away from this subject. Since insatiable curiosity had been one of the traits that had sent Illyan to ImpSec in the first place, he began trying to analyse Vorkosigan's behaviour all the more thoroughly.

They reached the tac room. Instead of the sleepy hush that had lain over it when they had been there earlier, the room was bustling and active. Vorrutyer and Serg were at the main console, overseeing the combat. Vorkosigan took a spare console and settled immediately into the work. Illyan stood behind him, one hand on a grab bar, practising at being invisible.

Vorkosigan's official task was comparing their current positions with those they'd need for a retreat, analysing ship manoeuvrability and capabilities, but Illyan wondered at some of the simulations he ran of the retreat. They all seemed to leave the flagship in the most exposed position possible. Perhaps Vorkosigan saw some strategic advantage to this? Or was he feeling suicidal? It seemed unfair of him to take the rest of the ship with him.

A message flashed on the display. _General Vorbataille confirmed lost with all hands._ Vorkosigan's shoulders hunched, but he continued to work. Illyan watched the current display, little green lights representing ships that Admiral Vorrutyer was directing, red the last recorded position of the Escobaran ships, plasma fire in blue, white lights unidentified objects obstructing local space.

"Shit," Vorkosigan muttered, also looking at the real-time display as Vorrutyer smiled and entered a code to transmit an order. As Illyan watched, the Barrayaran ships began to move and turn, like a perfect piece of machinery, reforming in a new pattern. Once he'd seen it, the pattern was obvious, Illyan thought, but somehow it had been imperceptible before.

An hour passed whilst the Barrayaran fleet demolished the Escobaran counter-attack. Vorkosigan kept updating his retreat patterns, but Illyan could see his attention wasn't really on the job any longer. Considering the way the Escobarans were breaking up, Illyan couldn't blame him for that.

"Nothing to say, Aral?" Vorrutyer said, glancing over to their desk. "Wasn't it pretty?"

"Very nice," Vorkosigan managed through his teeth.

Illyan watched several damaged Escobaran ships being surrounded and taken in tow by the Barrayaran cruisers. The cruiser would launch a party of marines to capture all aboard and imprison them; they would be shipped back to base to the prison camp being constructed there, and the prize ships would be put into Barrayaran service as quickly as possible. Illyan wondered professionally who would be running the prisoner interrogations. He hoped they would be done under fast-penta. No matter what Captain Negri said, Illyan could not believe interrogations performed the old-fashioned way yielded anywhere near such good information and was glad he had never been ordered to perform one.

The battle was ending now, and there was no doubt this time that the remaining Escobarans were running for good. Several light cruisers moved in pursuit, harrying at them until they were well away from the main fleet and on course for home. Illyan yawned and Vorkosigan looked around at him.

"Well, I must say I'm glad we don't need to use that retreat," Illyan remarked.

Vorkosigan's face was entirely blank as he said, "No. This is just the beginning." He turned back to the display and began to review the damage estimates, then stopped. "I can do this in my cabin. Come on, Lieutenant, you can go and get some sleep."


	7. Chapter 7

The buzzer sounded angrily in his ear, and Illyan jerked out of his nap, up and pulling his tunic on before it registered that this was not an emergency alarm but another summons from Vorkosigan. He called up the time from his chip. Vorkosigan's next meeting wasn't for another hour, what did he want now?

There had been a celebratory dinner last night for the senior staff, since after two weeks of fighting the Escobaran Outer Fleet was finally in retreat and their Home Fleet was digging in around the high planetary orbitals, leaving only a few task forces out marking the other wormhole exits. Illyan had endured six courses and Vor-style drinking afterwards--mercifully, Vorkosigan had only had a single drink at the toast to the Emperor's health--before finally escaping in Vorkosigan's wake at the change of shifts in the middle of the night cycle. As a result, Illyan had taken advantage of the fact that Vorkosigan was doing administrative work in his quarters all morning to take a nap in preparation for whatever this assignment was going to throw at him next. He stretched and straightened his tunic. The buzzer sounded again, and then a third time. Illyan frowned at it. Normally Vorkosigan was courteous about this, only buzzing once and then waiting. He keyed a code into his wrist comm.

"Commodore Vorkosigan?"

"Lieutenant. This is an emergency, I can't wait for you to get here."

"All right," Illyan said, sealing the collar of his tunic with one hand, then reaching for his boots. "What is it?" He had agreed with Vorkosigan that there might be emergency situations when Vorkosigan would have to deal with his colleagues without Illyan's watchful eye on him, and it had seemed reasonable enough to Illyan at the time. But there was no alarm sounding for fire or depressurisation or enemy attack, no noise from the corridors outside, no obvious emergency.

"There's no time to explain," Vorkosigan said. "Come to the Prince's quarters. Vorkosigan out."

Illyan glared at the comm, pulled on his boots and ran.

The Prince's quarters. An emergency. There was no way this could be good. He jumped down the hatch instead of climbing the ladder, sped through the security checkpoint at the end of the staff corridor where the Prince's ImpSec guards lurked, and hurried past Vorkosigan's door to the Prince's. It was half-open, and as he approached, he heard Vorkosigan's voice, in a low whisper that raised the hairs on Illyan's neck.

"I don't care if you're Emperor Dorca's ghost, you will not lay hands on any of my men."

Illyan hesitated, then decided against marching straight in. He moved carefully, positioning himself so that he had a clear line of sight but was concealed from those inside by the door-jamb. Inside the elegantly appointed cabin, Vorkosigan was standing bristling like a bulldog, face to face with the Prince. The Prince looked equally furious, his head tilted at an imperially arrogant angle.

Illyan scanned the rest of the cabin. Three of the Prince's armsmen were poised a few steps away. Illyan sighed inwardly. He might have been able to extract some help from the Prince's ImpSec men if necessary, but the armsmen would obey the Prince without hesitation. Then he saw what what Vorkosigan was upset about. Backed up against the wall, as far as he could get from the Prince, a white-faced young ensign stood. Illyan's eyes took him in carefully, head to toe and back again. The boy had been at the party last night with a few other junior officers, taking their turn breathing the rarefied air of their seniors. Now his dress greens were in disarray and a trickle of blood ran from his lip, marring otherwise blindingly handsome features. He could scarcely be a day over twenty, and he looked younger.

Illyan grimaced. Vorkosigan was within his rights to protest about this, but it wasn't going to be straightforward. He watched closely, unwilling to step in until he was sure he wasn't going to make matters worse.

" _Your_ men?" the Prince echoed dangerously. "You have no men on this ship."

"If justice is done over this, neither will you."

The Prince growled deep in his throat. "Take your bourgeoise Betan morality somewhere else, Lord Vorkosigan," he said. "Unless you want to join in...?"

Vorkosigan's jaw clenched. "Ensign," he said, deliberately ignoring the Prince, "are you here of your own free will?"

The boy looked too frightened to speak, which seemed answer enough to Illyan.

"He's an officer of the Emperor," the Prince said. "He obeys his orders."

"Even from the Emperor," Vorkosigan shot back, "some orders are illegal."

Illyan flinched. It wasn't even true, at least, not in any clear-cut fashion. Maybe it ought to be true, maybe Vorkosigan wanted it to be true, but to debate the idea with the Prince was so far beyond the realm of sanity that Illyan began to contemplate stunning Vorkosigan to shut him up.

But the Prince was drawing breath to speak. "I have endured enough of your insolence," he said, and for a moment his face and voice were so like Ezar's that Illyan straightened involuntarily. The Prince made a gesture to his armsmen, and two of them seized Vorkosigan. Illyan saw Vorkosigan shift his weight as if to strike back, and began to lunge forwards. Resisting a Vorbarra armsman in the performance of his duty was very frequently fatal. But Vorkosigan controlled himself and permitted the armsmen to hold him. They moved to throw him out, and Illyan stepped aside. It was far from ideal, but at least this little drama would be over, the Prince would be satisfied that he had exerted his authority and would probably back off. It was a shame about the boy, but Illyan's responsibility was for Vorkosigan alone. And the Prince generally offered benefits to those who pleased him--promotion, favours for friends, and so on. Illyan had seen it often enough at the Imperial Residence. As salves to his conscience went, it wasn't very successful, but he knew his duty.

"You've gone too far," Vorkosigan said. "This is the First Fleet, not your private boudoir."

The Prince's face contorted. He approached until he was almost face to face with Vorkosigan. "Not far enough," he whispered. Quick as a snake striking, he pulled a shockstick from his belt and cracked Vorkosigan across the face, three times in rapid succession. Completely unprepared for the sudden violence, Illyan jumped. Vorkosigan fell back against the armsmen holding him, shaking with the aftershocks. Then he raised his head and said in a roughened voice, his breath coming in uncontrollable gasps, "That's r-right. Let him go and ... take it out on me."

Illyan swallowed. How the hell was he going to get Vorkosigan out of this now? But the Prince laughed, his mood shifting unpredictably. "Wouldn't that get a rise out of Ges? Might even distract him from that girl. I accept, my Lord Vorkosigan."

He had to do something, but his mind was blank. As he was drawing breath, the Prince continued, "Isn't it fortunate you came out without your watchdog?"

Blank mind or not, Illyan recognised his straight line. He stepped into the cabin.

"He didn't." He was pleased that his voice was perfectly impassive. _I am a vid camera, I am the Emperor's eye, I am untouchable._ His mental firewalls seemed a poor defence against the panic that had been flooding his chest since he came on this scene, but he kept his face blank and his body language unreadable.

Everyone turned to him save Vorkosigan who was unable to move. The ensign looked, if possible, more frightened, and he saw flashes of uncertainty cross the armsmen's eyes. For a split second Prince Serg looked like a little boy caught in some peccadillo by his schoolmaster.

"Enough of this absurdity," Illyan continued, keeping hold of his advantage. "Find some other amusement, sir. Everything I witness, I report to your father." He looked around the cabin, deliberately making the sweep of his gaze resemble the sweep of a vid-camera. "I might point out that it is your armsmen who obey your every order without complaint, not your father's officers."

That remark made the armsmen holding Vorkosigan glower at him. Doubtless they preferred enforcing Prince Serg's whims on others to being his victim.

The Prince had taken a step back as Illyan entered. "I suppose you want him all for yourself," he said, but Illyan could sense that his heart had gone out of it. The Prince might be on the borders of insanity, but he still had a politician's eye for the main chance, and he couldn't defy his father so publicly yet.

Mercifully, Vorkosigan wasn't trying to join in. Illyan spared him a glance and saw that he was barely keeping on his feet after the Prince's attack. Time to move this along.

"We'll leave you in peace now," he said smoothly, a courtier's tone. He gave the ensign a jerk of the head, and the boy began to edge towards the door, shooting sidelong glances at the Prince as if he expected to be beaten with the shockstick too.

"Take your master, then, dog," the Prince snapped, bitter hatred in his eyes. "And that prudish boy. But remember," his voice dropped, "soon we will have victory. And then my father's name won't be much use to protect you or him."

He signalled to his armsmen, and they released Vorkosigan, who swayed and began to fall. Illyan caught him and propelled him out and along the corridor to his own cabin, herding the ensign before him. The door sealed securely behind them.

Illyan let Vorkosigan fall onto his bunk. The ensign was shaking almost as much as Vorkosigan, and Illyan pushed him towards the desk chair. Then he stood still for a minute, trying to regain his mental balance. What the Prince had said was true. When they defeated the Escobarans, the Prince's personal credit with the military and the ministers would skyrocket. And that meant that anyone who had annoyed him, much less humiliated him in front of witnesses, would be in trouble.

"Sir--the Prince said--do I have to go to the brig?" the ensign asked suddenly.

"I shouldn't have thought so," Illyan answered. "You'd better go clean up your face." Silently, the ensign went into the washroom to deal with his split lip.

Vorkosigan was trying to sit up, unsuccessfully. Illyan drew breath to tell him exactly what he thought of his rash words and the mess he'd embroiled them both in, but Vorkosigan spoke first. "Nice t-timing, Lieutenant," he said, half ironically. Then he met Illyan's eye. "Thank you."

 _Outmanoeuvred again,_ Illyan thought, trying for objectivity, but for an instant he felt like the dog the Prince had called him, given a pat on the head. He shook himself.

Vorkosigan drew his hand across his face, probing the red welts gingerly. "I think," he said, "it's safe to say you've d-drawn Serg's negative attention now. You'd better ... look out."

Illyan gave an involuntary snort. "Really?" he said. "I know how to take care of myself, sir."

"I can see that." Vorkosigan's strained face formed a grimace that Illyan supposed was meant for a smile. "You did very well."

They heard a clatter from the washroom, and Vorkosigan tried again to rise, but fell back.

"Go see he's all right," he ordered, waving a shaking hand in frustration at Illyan.

Illyan went in cautiously. The youth was sitting on the tiled floor, his face in his hands. At Illyan's entrance he jumped violently.

"It's only me," said Illyan inanely, doubting that would be any reassurance to the boy. The ensign wiped his face with his jacket sleeve and glanced up at him but did not meet his eye. Illyan half-filled a glass with water and offered it. The ensign rinsed his mouth and spat, then muttered something under his breath. In French, Illyan realised. He switched to that language himself, squatting down nearby.

"Are you hurt?"

The ensign shook his head.

"What are you called?"

"Beauregard. Sebastien Beauregard."

Illyan couldn't think of anything else to ask, and sat back on his heels, observing. After a moment Ensign Beauregard looked at him.

"Is it true that you have a--a computerised brain?"

"Merely a biochip to enhance my memory," said Illyan, not permitting his face to show any of his amusement at the question. Wilder rumours than that had gone round the ship; some people even whispered that he was an android despite the fact that perfect imitation-humans had never been developed even on Beta.

"And you remember everything you see and report it all to the Emperor?"

"Yes, that's true."

"Will you tell him about this? What the Prince, um, wanted me to do?"

"I cannot edit my report."

Beauregard looked at his feet. "I'm not--like that," he muttered. "I like girls. I have a girlfriend back home. If you report this, people will think…"

"I don't imagine the Emperor will wish to make this episode public," Illyan said blandly. "No blame will be attached to you. You would not be, ah, the first to have suffered in this fashion."

"But the Prince is married!"

Illyan nearly did laugh then, but remembered his own youthful romanticism at the Imperial Wedding. That had been before he had worked in the Residence and seen the Prince at close quarters. "An Imperial Prince must marry and beget an heir."

"She's beautiful, Princess Kareen. I saw her once, when I was working at HQ." The ensign appeared to be relaxing, his face changing from greenish-white to a more normal complexion. Then he looked up worriedly. "He wouldn't really have--done that. To Commodore Vorkosigan. Would he?"

Illyan smiled sourly at this innocence. "Fortunately, we were not in the position of having to find out."

"But--I mean, you wouldn't have let him."

Illyan's smile tightened. Did the boy think him all-powerful? But he heard his mouth forming a confident reply without consulting his brain. "No. I would not."

A thud from the main cabin accompanied by some muffled cursing interrupted them and Illyan went over to investigate. The light on Vorkosigan's comconsole was blinking and Vorkosigan himself was sprawled on the floor too far away to answer it.

"Shall I say you're indisposed?" Illyan asked, uncertain which to go to first.

"No, I'll deal with it. Probably Rulf." He got to his knees, and Illyan helped him up into the desk chair, pressed the button to receive the call, then stepped backwards out of the view.

"Aral, we've been waiting ten minutes--shit, what have you been doing to yourself?" Admiral Vorhalas' face appeared on the display, his frustrated expression changing to alarm as he took in Vorkosigan's appearance.

"Having fun with the Prince. I daresay you'll hear all about it sooner or later. Caught him feeling up this poor ensign. He didn't like being interfered with."

"Not again," Vorhalas groaned.

"He's done it before? You said nothing to me."

"I found out too late to do anything about it." Vorhalas shook his head. "Is the boy all right?"

"He's in here right now. I think he'd better be transferred to another ship, to keep him out of the Prince's way for a while."

"Yes, all right. Shall I cancel this meeting until you're fit to be seen?"

"I can manage." In the background, Illyan muttered objections, but Vorkosigan waved him down. "The captains of the _Revenge_ and the _Count Selig_ need to be briefed on the latest Contingency Blue plans."

Vorhalas' lips twitched. "Aral, you look like you're about to fall out of your chair. I can do the briefing. Did I see that lieutenant of yours there?"

Vorkosigan nodded and Illyan stepped fully into the view of the com pickup.

"Ah, good man. Make sure he stays out of sight until he's fit to be seen, please, Lieutenant. I know it's an uphill struggle with him."

Vorhalas and Vorkosigan exchanged ironic looks as Illyan said as blandly as he could, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Go rest, Aral. I don't want rumours about you being shock-sticked spreading all over the fleet."

Vorkosigan nodded slowly, appreciating this argument, and cut the comm. He leaned back and shut his eyes for a moment, lips pressed tight as another tremor went over him. Then he straightened and turned to the ensign.

"Beauregard, isn't it? As you heard, I'm going to arrange for you to be posted to one of the other ships."

Beauregard looked less than thrilled at this news--the flagship was the plum posting in the fleet--but only said in a muted voice, "Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry about this. If--when this is over, I will try to arrange some kind of justice. There should be something..." A strange expression flickered in Vorkosigan's eyes. "Once this is over," he repeated. Then he seemed to shake himself, or perhaps it was just another shockstick tremor. "Return to your quarters, Ensign. I'll cut your orders for this evening's bulletin. Do you need to see a medic?"

"I'm all right." Ensign Beauregard saluted and went to the door. He paused. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly but in heartfelt tones. Vorkosigan gave him a nod. He was silent for a while, and Illyan watched the expression on his face change from anger to frustration to weariness.

"How much did you witness?" he asked.

"I came just before the Prince ordered him arrested."

"You didn't actually see the Prince assaulting him, then?"

"No." Illyan called up the memory. "The circumstantial evidence from what I saw was pretty strong, though." He paused. "And, of course, I witnessed the assault on you."

Vorkosigan shook his head impatiently. "That was just Serg being Serg. He wouldn't have followed through."

Illyan raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Didn't look like that from where I was standing."

"Maybe, but Ges doesn't like anyone but him--" Vorkosigan cut himself off abruptly and changed tack. "I would have hoped Ges could at least keep the Prince from chasing every pretty boy on the ship."

"The Prince mentioned a girl," Illyan said slowly. "I don't know how even Admiral Vorrutyer could have a girl on the flagship, though."

Vorkosigan's frown deepened. "You're the spy. Look into it." His frown changed to a grimace as another convulsion went over him, and he nearly did fall out of the chair. Illyan caught him and propelled him back to the bunk. Ignoring Vorkosigan's protests he pulled off his boots and spread a blanket over him.

"If your career as a spy comes to a sticky end you can always retrain as a nursemaid," Vorkosigan grumbled. Illyan only smiled.

"Admiral Vorhalas gave me a very strongly worded order, sir."

"Yes, I'll probably have him in here soon with a bunch of flowers." Despite his ironic words Vorkosigan looked better lying down. Illyan had been shock-sticked himself more than once, and knew exactly how unpleasant it was for several hours afterwards. Personally he preferred stunning, since the hangover could be mitigated with synergine. There wasn't much that could be done for shocked nerves except wait.

"At least let me have something to read, if you're keeping me imprisoned here."

Illyan fetched a sheaf of reports and waved on the reading light by the bunk. Vorkosigan took them in still-trembling hands and began to riffle through them.

"May I use your comconsole, sir? To investigate the matter of the girl?"

"Go ahead." Vorkosigan suddenly grinned. "I'm sure you already know all my access codes."

Illyan flushed but did not deny it. He entered the password to activate the console and started by examining the personnel data for everyone aboard. He doubted this would bring anything to light, but he had to start somewhere. There had been cases, in the past, of women joining the Service disguised as men, though the more recent physicals tended to make this difficult without bribery. He read through about fifty records before boredom overtook him and he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Women were not permitted in the Imperial Service, except in some of the auxiliary medical units and among ImpSec's deep cover agents. Certainly not in the invasion fleet. He doubted that even the Prince's influence could have got a civilian woman on board.

For a moment his mind was distracted with wondering what it would be like to serve in a mixed service, like galactics did. How on earth did they deal with relationships between soldiers? What if the women got pregnant? How could they justify having women as front-line troops anyway? The idea of ordering women into battle made Illyan feel faintly nauseated. Even if they could fight--and Illyan knew enough of the history of the Cetagandan wars not to doubt their courage when necessary--what man could endure watching a woman be shot at his side without breaking rank? It occurred to his sense of justice that this was hardly the women's fault, but nonetheless it was the truth about Barrayaran men.

But there were women out there, in the enemy ships, firing on them and mustering to defend Escobar, so it must be possible. Probably not for Barrayarans, not this generation. A sudden horrible thought entered his head as he realised where Admiral Vorrutyer might have found a woman. He called up the records from the brig. They had captured various prisoners on three separate occasions, and there were eleven enemy soldiers still in the flagship's brig, well guarded, he hoped, awaiting transfer to the POW camp on the newly discovered planet. And amongst them was one woman. Only an ensign, the same age as Ensign Beauregard. He called up her data, and blinked at the face that blossomed on the screen. She was amazingly beautiful. But her records showed she was still in the brig. There was no mention of Admiral Vorrutyer, no suggestion that she was not locked in a cell beside the other enemy combatants. She had been captured in the very first group of prisoners.

Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Perhaps there wasn't really any girl. Perhaps it was a joke, perhaps the Admiral had some boy playing dress-up, perhaps… Illyan could not shake his gut-level conviction that he had found a lead. But there wasn't anything more the comconsole records could tell him. He closed it down and turned to share his suspicions with Commodore Vorkosigan. But when he looked, he saw that Vorkosigan had fallen asleep, the files still piled around him.

After a moment's reflection Illyan decided that was for the best. If Vorkosigan thought Admiral Vorrutyer had taken a woman prisoner for his own amusement, he would be up and charging through the door brandishing his nerve disruptor before Illyan had even managed to confirm the situation, much less formulate a plan. And there was no way that would end well for anyone. No, this needed cautious investigating. First, the brig. Illyan dimmed the lights in the cabin and withdrew, meditating on cover stories as we went. It was a pleasant change to have something to do on his own terms, something that used his abilities other than those of a vid recorder.

The brig was quiet. The duty guard looked at him in surprise as he entered. It was one of the men whose profiles Illyan had just read, and he produced a name.

"Corporal Angelov."

"Sir?" Angelov gazed apprehensively at him. Illyan was glad of the rumours about his status that floated around the ship.

"How many POWs do you have at present?" he asked. Never give explanations unless you have to, that was the best rule in this situation. Most of the time people would think up explanations for themselves, or be too worried to even wonder why. This proved no exception to the rule.

"Eleven, sir," Angelov said at once.

"Any trouble with any of them?"

"No, sir." Angelov paused, and Illyan waited, his eyes fixed on the guard. "Well, I don't know. It's a little… difficult. Um." He fell silent again. Illyan judged it time for an encouraging noise, and was rewarded with further explanation. "Admiral Vorrutyer took one of them--for interrogation, he said, and he never brought her back. But, I mean, I would have heard if she'd escaped or something. I--well, it's not my place to criticise the Admiral. But I don't like it." He turned half-frightened, half-defiant eyes on Illyan.

"I see. For interrogation, you say? To sickbay, perhaps, or one of the interrogation rooms?"

"Um--to his quarters, I heard."

Illyan gave a slow nod. "When was this?" he enquired mildly.

"Ten days ago, sir, right after we took the first batch of prisoners."

"Hmm. I shall look into it, Corporal. Is there anything else?" The most vital question, at least when dealing with an apparently friendly witness.

"He sent for one of the medics yesterday, sir, but I don't know what for. It was Stefan--Senior MedTech Ioannides, that is--and I haven't seen him recently."

"Ah. Thank you for your co-operation, Corporal Angelov."

Angelov hesitated again, then said, "Are you going to--can you get her back here, sir? Only if something happens, it'll be me who takes the blame for it all."

"Perhaps." Illyan left it nicely ambiguous as to which statement he was answering. "I will look into it." He left the brig before Angelov could start asking more questions.

It seemed that his intuition was proved correct. He wished fervently that it had not been. Now what to do? The next stop must be sickbay, to find out what Senior MedTech Stefan Ioannides had to say.

On arriving at the sickbay, he found that Ioannides was off-duty today, reason unexplained. He was considering his options when the senior surgeon, Captain Lavalle, walked by, and Illyan gave him a nod. He'd only exchanged a few words with Negri's other man with the fleet, but he knew he could trust Lavalle.

Lavalle came over. "Everything all right, Lieutenant?"

"I would like a word, if I may, sir."

Lavalle led him to his private office and closed the door. "What is it?" he asked.

"Your man Ioannides," Illyan began. A look of comprehension crossed Lavalle's face.

"Ah, you've heard about that already. It is a nasty business, I must say. I gave him today off to get his balance back. He's young and didn't quite realise what goes on here."

"What exactly did he encounter?" Illyan asked blandly, as if he already knew the outline of the incident Lavalle was referring to. Various possibilities whirled in his mind, but he set them aside. A phrase from his childhood surfaced in his mind: it is a capital mistake to theorise ahead of one's data.

"He was asked to remove that prisoner's contraceptive implant," Lavalle explained. "It's not a very complicated procedure--it's a tiny thing, barely takes a scratch to extract it. But--well, I don't know what Admiral Vorrutyer gets up to in his cabin and I don't want to, but the poor guy spent half an hour being sick afterwards."

"I see." Illyan certainly did see, far too much. "I think I'd better get back to my duties now. That's all I wanted to find out about."

Lavalle gave him a sly smile. "I understand."

Illyan returned the smile mechanically and hurried out of sickbay. An extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Her contraceptive implant removed. He knew too much about the Prince's proclivities to misunderstand what was going on, though his mind shied away from considering the implications in detail. He was beginning to wish he'd never started this. It wasn't his job to investigate things for Commodore Vorkosigan. _Vorkosigan is not your commanding officer._ He could imagine all too vividly what Negri would say when he learned that Illyan had been inveigled into spying for Vorkosigan instead of spying on him. Not that he had even been inveigled. Vorkosigan had commanded, and Illyan had obeyed, as if by reflex. Not good.

And that wasn't even the worst of it. Flashes from the scene with the Prince kept replaying themselves in his mind as he walked. He had succeeded in getting Vorkosigan out of dangerous trouble, but only by deflecting that trouble onto himself instead. His duty here depended on his ability to melt into the walls and observe without influencing events, and now he'd turned himself into a player in these games. He would be a fool to think this was over.

He turned his mind back to the present problem. Whether he should have investigated it or not, now he had found it. He considered lying to Vorkosigan, telling him he had found nothing, it was just some mistake. No. Vorkosigan had a suspicious mind, he would probably look himself and then he'd never trust another word Illyan said. But how would Vorkosigan respond? Illyan feared his initial thought was correct: Vorkosigan would do something rash. And it was his job to prevent that. He squelched the part of his mind that tried to argue that Vorkosigan's probable reaction was the right one, that such viciousness should be burned out. His orders were clear. This loss of objectivity with Vorkosigan must go no further.

He reached Vorkosigan's cabin and let himself in. The lights were up again, and Vorkosigan was sitting up on his bunk, looking rather better than he had before.

"There you are. Have you found anything?"

Illyan took a casual perch on the table beside Vorkosigan's bunk. "He does have a girl. A prisoner, an Escobaran ensign we captured in the first attack."

Vorkosigan spat a single expletive.

"Quite." Illyan paused, and refrained from mentioning what Lavalle had told him about the contraceptive implant. There was no way Vorkosigan would find out about that on his own, and he needed to keep every card he could in his hand now. Anger was wicking up through Vorkosigan's expression already, a terrible anger that made Illyan quail. He wiped all emotion from his own features. What he was about to do would divide Vorkosigan from him as absolutely as Radnov could, and he hated the very thought of it. But it was necessary: it was his duty, and otherwise Vorkosigan would get himself killed for nothing.

Vorkosigan began to push himself upright. He was still shaky on his feet, but Illyan deliberately did not offer him any help. Vorkosigan gave him a look of surprise that changed to exasperation as he saw Illyan's blank, unmoved expression.

"You can't imagine I'm going to leave her in his hands!"

"I can't imagine what you can hope to achieve except get yourself in worse trouble this time."

"You helped me with Beauregard."

"You mean I got you out of the mess you made of it." Illyan made his voice cold, passionless. He had faced down the Prince, surely he could manage this. It was a thousand times harder than their sparring sessions, because it was real. "And that was cutting it very close. I cannot permit you to incriminate yourself, sir. You have a duty to fulfil here. What will be served by handing Vorrutyer a chance to charge you with mutiny? There is already one treason charge hanging over your head."

"Then two won't make matters any worse. They can only starve me to death once."

"I cannot edit my report. It will be clear that this charge is not as empty as the other."

Vorkosigan's eyes burned. "I do not leave prisoners to be tortured," he whispered. Illyan had a sudden dizzying glimpse of an abyss of anger and pain behind his words. He remained quite still, feeling his stunner heavy against his hip. The report on Vorkosigan's murder of the political officer at Komarr spooled through his head.

As Vorkosigan took an angry step towards him, he swayed and nearly fell. Illyan crushed the instinct to move to his assistance and tried a different approach.

"Sir, you're barely back on your feet. Even if you did try to do something, you're not fit right now. Admiral Vorrutyer could knock you down without even trying." He let the concern he felt bleed into his voice, and some of the red fury left Vorkosigan's eyes. He grunted, a sound halfway between agreement and anger.

Then it was Vorkosigan's turn to change tack. "Why are you arguing with me, Illyan? You're no Ministry man, you can't have any sympathy for Vorrutyer. And I know you don't think raping and torturing prisoners is acceptable."

"He's already had her ten days. What's done is done. But you're needed, sir, for this invasion. You keep saying it's going to fail, and if it does your duty is to run the retreat. Should I let you throw it all away on this?"

"Duty?" Vorkosigan's tone was bitter. "What do you know of what my duty is here?"

"Very little, sir, but I do know your duty here is important enough that Negri assigned me to make sure nothing prevents you from fulfilling it. I cannot let anything get in the way of that, not even your conscience." Hypocrite, he thought to himself as he spoke.

Vorkosigan sat down abruptly. "You remind me of Negri sometimes," he said. "A real cold-blooded bastard. Damn you." But his expression had changed.

There was a silence, and Illyan surveyed his cold triumph. Vorkosigan looked more defeated than he had after the Prince had finished with him. But he needed to push this all the way.

"Your word, sir," said Illyan quietly.

A last ember of anger flared in Vorkosigan's eyes, then died. "You already hold my word," he said in a leaden voice. "I won't meet with anyone without your presence. Not even Ges. Not even for this."

Illyan let out his breath slowly and nodded. Then, not waiting to be dismissed, he turned to the door. It was done. He had done his duty. Vorkosigan was safe.

He did not look at the closed door of Admiral Vorrutyer's cabin.


	8. Chapter 8

The weeks that followed were unpleasant. They captured another Escobaran ship intact, in what Illyan had to admit was an impressive manoeuvre, but amongst the prisoners were any number of female soldiers. Illyan tried not to think about what might be happening to them. He wasn't the only one, either--there were whispers amongst some of the junior officers, which Illyan did his best not to hear.

Vorrutyer and the Prince were in high spirits every day. Illyan had a chance to study up close what effects they had on morale and the habits of the other officers. Captain Stone, the flag captain, did not attempt shelter his officers from them, but his exec Commander Venne did, and there was a widening divide between those who took Stone's view and those who clung to Venne. Amongst the staff, Couer stayed close to Vorkosigan and Vorhalas, whilst Helski laughed loud at Vorrutyer's jokes and hinted that he'd like to be invited to their games. The more junior staff officers mostly followed Helski's lead, apart from a handful who hero-worshipped Vorkosigan. Some of those made it exceedingly plain that if Vorkosigan lifted a finger they would rid him of his evil ImpSec spy, which left Illyan more amused than offended.

There was plenty of work, of course, as they moved across the system and took the Betan wormhole: meetings and conferences, plans to be edited and men to advise. The flagship didn't see any major action again, following behind the task forces Vorrutyer despatched to herd the Escobarans towards their planet's high orbitals, to overhaul and search the civilian vessels unlucky enough to be traversing Escobaran local space when the Barrayarans arrived, and to capture the other wormholes and their transfer stations. Illyan sat silently through everything, recording and watching.

Vorkosigan had turned even more reserved and frozen than before. He never spoke to Illyan unless he had to, and Illyan for his part did not like to look too long at the man he was assigned to watch. He knew that things were going badly wrong with this assignment. He had allowed himself to become friendly with the man he was spying on, sparring with him, chatting, permitting himself to care about what happened to him, and it had affected his judgement.

This, he knew, did sometimes happen to surveillance agents, even the best. Constantly in the presence of their subjects, they lost objectivity, and had to be assigned a different task. But there was no way he could convey a private report of his difficulties to Negri and nobody here who could take his place. Besides, he was not convinced that he could have done anything else. If he was honest with himself, and with his memory he had no choice but honesty, he feared he would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Bearing two conflicting pictures of the world in his head was normal for him, but this was a different kind of problem. Both his organic memory and his chip told the same story, it was the interpretation he put on it which divided it. Had he stepped wildly outside his orders and torpedoed his career to help Vorkosigan save Ensign Beauregard, or had he done the only right thing in a difficult situation? He feared he knew which interpretation Negri would prefer. But was Negri right? It was a question that had floated in the depths of his mind before, but never had he been forced to stare at it without respite, and the implications were decidedly uncomfortable.

He turned his thoughts back to the less complicated present duty of recording all that happened. The meeting was warming up. Illyan leaned against the bulkhead with arms folded and watched through narrowed eyes as the Staff debated.

"This is all the intelligence you have?"

Commodore Couer shuffled through plasfilm sheets and produced small sheaf. "We have this as well, sir, from the agents on Tau Ceti."

Vorkosigan took it, looking at the inoffensive sheets with the same glare that he had impartially distributed all around the ship that day. "Military Intelligence," he muttered.

Illyan found himself in total agreement, though he did not so much as try to meet Vorkosigan's eye. ImpSec agents traditionally scorned the regular military intelligence agency.

"To summarise it for you, sir, there are strong reasons to think that the Escobaran ships dispersed through the galaxy are gathering at the Tau Cetan jump point and are preparing to make a move. It's also possible that the Tau Cetans may have been refitting and strengthening their forces, though we do not believe they are sending their own ships."

"What kind of move?" Vorrutyer asked sharply. "And are there any changes in the Tau Cetans' dispositions of their own fleet?"

"It doesn't say, sir."

"What the hell use is that kind of report?" Vorkosigan demanded. "You don't have to send agents to Tau Ceti to know that, you just have to look at the map. It's the obvious point for them to muster. Don't we have anything from ImpSec?" He did not look over his shoulder at Illyan.

Before either the Prince or Vorrutyer could take this spark of anger from Vorkosigan and fan it into an inferno, Vorhalas intervened.

"We only have reports from MI, Aral. I don't know why, but nothing from ImpSec has arrived yet. You're closer to Negri than I am--" a covert glance at Illyan "--so perhaps you should put your name on the end of our next polite request for more detailed help we send off to him."

Vorkosigan's brows drew down, and he was silent a moment. Then he said, "If this is all we have to go on, then I say we send reinforcements. If they get a foothold in here, we'll be in trouble. Bad trouble, if the Tau Cetans do decide to support them."

"Are you volunteering?" drawled Vorrutyer.

"As you wish."

"Good. You can review the ships we have there already, and we'll send Battle Group D to reinforce." Vorrutyer smiled at the Prince. "Perhaps you would like to command them, sir? Vorkosigan will have them ready in three days."

The Prince's eye lit. Illyan's heart sank. Off to the Tau Cetan wormhole with the Prince. And he had openly declared himself an enemy of the Prince now; he would be a fool to imagine he could escape some sort of retaliation for that. The only bright side of this was that it might get them away from Vorrutyer and the mess surrounding the prisoner.

*

The quiet of the supper hour filled the ship as Illyan carried a tray along a short-cut from the officers' mess to Vorkosigan's cabin. He hoped Vorkosigan would eat it this time. Illyan no longer dared insist Vorkosigan take reasonable care of himself, though it was, he persuaded himself, part of his duty. Not eating would only impair Vorkosigan's judgement. Illyan scowled into midair, making a young tech who was hastening to fetch his own dinner flinch.

As he rounded a corner, some small subliminal signal sent him into high alert, and when a man emerged from the airlock he'd just passed and lunged at him, Illyan twisted around and threw the only thing he had to hand, the meal tray, straight into his attacker's face.

His memory chip, impervious to the adrenaline that was flooding the rest of his system, ran a search and identified the assailant as one of the Vorbarra armsman from the scene with the Prince, and he noted the absence of a weapon. The power discharge of any standard weapon would set off alarms throughout the ship and bring an instant response. This was intended as a silent attack, a mysterious 'accident'. Processing the information further, he realised that with the Prince and Vorrutyer in absolute control of the ship, any use of a weapon by Illyan would be catastrophic. He stopped his hand as it moved to his holster.

The Prince's bodyguards were trained at least as well as ImpSec agents, and the splattering of hot stew and hydroponically grown potatoes did little to impede his assault. There was a confused moment as they each struggled for a grip. The bodyguard, heavier and stronger, pinned Illyan against the wall for a moment, but as he went for a choke Illyan kicked out fiercely and broke away.

Counter-attack or flee? No, this had to be silent, no frantic chase through the ship's corridors. He feinted, dodged a grab, and for a moment it was just like the gymnasium practising with Vorkosigan. The practice stood him in good stead now, and he recalled a trick that had worked on Vorkosigan, a risky move but one that even this highly trained bodyguard would probably fall for. He deliberately left an opening for the bodyguard, and took a vicious blow on his kneecap, but instead of unbalancing him as an unexpected blow would have, he was able to continue his own attack and got the bodyguard in a stranglehold. He held the man until he went limp, then straightened up. Quickly he assessed the situation. His knee was beginning to throb, and he needed to get the evidence of this attack cleared away and get out of danger before anything further could happen.

He dragged his assailant into the inner airlock, and looked around. The monitors had been tampered with, proving that this had been set up well in advance. Now his attacker's foresight would serve him. He suppressed the desire to give this man the treatment that was so clearly intended for him and cycle him right through the airlock. Wasteful and unnecessary, not to mention harder for the Prince to ignore. Illyan knew better than to make himself a larger target than he already was.

He checked the armsman over, determined that he was breathing well and could safely be left, and limped back to the corridor. Apart from the food trampled into the matting all was calm. He tensed for action as he heard approaching steps, but the man who appeared was Corporal Angelov. Illyan straightened and tried to look normal, but the mess was too much for Angelov to ignore.

"Sir?" he said, stopping and staring around. "Is everything all right?"

Illyan wondered what story Angelov was imagining for himself to explain the peculiar situation. "Ah, Corporal. Could you arrange for someone to clear this up, please?"

"Er--yes, sir. Um, what happened?"

"I dropped it." Illyan gave a self-deprecating smile. "Wasn't paying attention to where I was going. I'd clear it up myself, but Commodore Vorkosigan is going to be wondering what's become of his supper."

Angelov looked at the livid finger-marks on Illyan's neck and his dishevelled state, but said nothing more. Illyan kept his expression perfectly bland. After a moment, Angelov said, "Um … have you heard anything more about that prisoner? Only I was wondering…"

"I believe Admiral Vorrutyer is keeping her detained. I don't think there is any danger of her escaping." Illyan nearly gagged on his own words, but what else could he say? _She's being tortured and I have decided to let it continue?_

Angelov's expression closed. "Yes, sir," he said. "Sorry to bother you, sir." Illyan turned and made his way back to the mess, trying not to limp too obviously whilst Angelov watched him.

Before he went back to the mess he stopped at his cabin, where he quickly tidied his uniform and bent to his secure box. The ikon his mother had given him stared uncompromisingly at him as he entered the access code, and he looked away. From the cupboard he took out a very sharp, very non-regulation combat knife, and added it to the weapons at his belt. Using that wouldn't attract attention from the ship's monitors, and Illyan was quite certain the Prince would try again.

His leg was stiffening as he collected another tray and went by a different route to Vorkosigan's cabin. Vorkosigan glanced up as he entered.

"Thank you, Lieutenant, leave it on the table, please," he said in an indifferent voice. Illyan limped across the room in obedience, and Vorkosigan's head jerked around.

"What have you been doing?" he asked in a much sharper tone. "You're hurt."

Illyan set the tray down. "A little fun with the Prince's men." Vorkosigan's frown deepened.

"Have you been to sickbay?"

"Not yet. It's just bruising, I think."

"Hmm." Vorkosigan's eye, well-trained at military inspections, spotted the knife at Illyan's hip. "Did you kill anyone?"

"No. I only just picked this up. He's in the inner airlock SG-25 with a dislocated shoulder, and should be waking up around now with a nasty headache."

"The airlock?"

"Yes, well, he was going to space me. I expect he'll have time to figure a way out before the air runs out."

For a moment Vorkosigan's eyes gleamed, the most expression Illyan had seen on his face for days. Then his face clouded again. "Well, keep alert. Wouldn't want to be deprived of my watchdog, after all."

Illyan flinched. "Yes, sir." Vorkosigan took up the tray and pulled the covers off, and Illyan slipped out. Back in his cabin, he turned the ikon to face the wall.

*

The next day, Illyan was leaving Vorkosigan's cabin after delivering a message when he saw Admiral Vorrutyer emerge into the corridor. For a moment he was tempted to duck back inside. Prince Serg's snarls and the recurring problems with his bodyguards were irritating enough, but Vorrutyer's lewd teasing of Vorkosigan and sometimes himself sickened Illyan. But he couldn't run and hide behind Vorkosigan now. Instead, he turned all his body language extremely neutral, a trick that could deflect all but the most determined attention. It didn't work.

"You--yes, you, Aral's little pet--come here and help."

Illyan could not escape. He walked over to Vorrutyer, still perfectly neutral, his eyes scanning all around lest this be another trap. Sergeant Bothari was shambling out of Vorrutyer's cabin, carrying something. Vorrutyer held the other end. Illyan saw that it was a person, shrouded in a blanket. His stomach turned over. It was the girl. Vorrutyer was gesturing to him, and Illyan found himself taking her legs. Vorrutyer, he realised, was thumbing his nose at the Emperor and at Vorkosigan, inviting their watchdog to see his victim up close, and anger joined with revulsion inside him. He locked both reactions deep down and carried the woman as if she were a first-aid practice dummy. He did not look at her.

"Take good care of her now," Vorrutyer said with a light laugh. Bothari grunted and they walked off together like men bearing a coffin. Then Illyan's eyes did fall on the woman and he stared, sick with horror.

Torture, like injury and death, was an accepted risk of being an ImpSec agent. Illyan had had two experiences of it close up. The first time was when he had been captured by Cetagandans. His escape and its dramatic sequel had caught Captain Negri's attention and had earned him decoration and promotion. Mercifully it had been before the memory chip had been installed, and he only had a hazy recollection of the worst parts of it. It was the second memory that flooded his mind, perfectly preserved, worse than even the strongest trauma-flashback.

It was not he who had been tortured. One of the Emperor's personal servants had been snatched as part of an arcane plot, and Illyan had been sent to get him out before too much information was extracted from him. But there had been complications upon complications, and by the time he got through to the man it was too late. His injuries appeared minor, but he had become completely catatonic. He did not even respond to his own name. Illyan got him out, but the man died in his arms before they reached safety. Negri had considered the operation a qualified success, but Illyan knew he had failed, and had sunk into a black depression for some weeks afterwards, replaying every moment of the operation over and over again to find the way he could have made it work.

Now he saw the same expression, or rather the same lack of expression, the loss of self and life, in the angelic face of the girl. He stopped dead, and did not realise he was staring white-faced until Bothari spoke.

"Let go of her."

Illyan jumped and stared. Bothari repeated himself.

Illyan opened his mouth, though he could find no words to speak. Suddenly one of Bothari's boots came up in a kick to his elbow, not very hard but perfectly judged to strike the nerve. Illyan's arm spasmed and he released the woman helplessly. Bothari caught her up and cradled her. She was a tall woman, but he held her like a child. He muttered something under his breath.

With an effort Illyan pulled himself together. "What are you doing? She needs to go to sickbay," he protested. "She needs medical help--the surgeon will look after her."

"Admiral Vorrutyer gave her to me," said Bothari stolidly. "The Prince goes to sickbay."

Then Bothari turned his back and continued to walk. Illyan trailed behind him as if sleepwalking, unwilling to leave the woman in Bothari's power, but unable to think of a way to extricate her. Bothari was muttering again, and now and then Illyan caught a word. They were endearments, apparently addressed to the Escobaran woman. His sickened confusion grew. What in the world was this? Bothari had been helping Vorrutyer torture her for weeks.

Bothari raised his voice again. "Synergine, painkillers, lint bandages, antiseptic cream, cotton wool, electrolyte powder," he said, mysteriously. "You're Commodore Vorkosigan's man. Tell him that's what I need."

"Um--all right," said Illyan uncertainly. He did not deny being Commodore Vorkosigan's man.

They continued to Bothari's cabin, and Illyan reluctantly left him at the door. Bothari bore the woman inside, and Illyan glimpsed him bending to kiss her on the lips as the door closed. His stomach roiled.

He walked blindly back to Vorkosigan's cabin, physically sick with horror and self-disgust. He opened the door and went straight past the staring Vorkosigan to the little washroom. Then he vomited again and again, as if he could purge himself of guilt and memory.

A hand touched his shoulder and he sank back on his heels, shaking. Vorkosigan was gazing down at him in unexpected concern.

"What's wrong? Should I call a medic?" he asked.

Illyan shook his head, unable to speak. The honest worry in Vorkosigan's eyes was like a blow. His stomach heaved again and he spat bile. Vorkosigan stooped down beside him and gripped his shoulder in support. When the spasm left him Illyan shrugged him off. Vorkosigan stood again, calculation joining the concern on his face. Illyan took several slow breaths and raised his eyes to Vorkosigan.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said nakedly. "I'm sorry. I saw her. The woman Vorrutyer had. I--" His voice faded, lacking words to compass his appalled guilt.

A spark of anger flared in Vorkosigan's eyes. He made a sudden movement. Illyan half expected to be struck and did not flinch, but instead Vorkosigan caught hold of his arm and pulled him to his feet.

"So," he said, still gripping Illyan at arm's length. "You're not such a cold-blooded bastard as you look. Now you know."

With an effort Illyan said, "Yes, sir."

Vorkosigan released him and Illyan staggered backwards, coming to rest with his back to the cold tiled wall. For a while there was silence.

"You still hold my word," Vorkosigan said abruptly. "Shall I kill him?"

Temptation made Illyan's head reel, and he closed his eyes. That was a mistake, for at once the image of the Escobaran woman's face swam in his mind and merged with the face of the Emperor's servant. Further memories followed, strung together like beads, and his eyes snapped open again.

"No, sir. Sergeant Bothari has her now. I think--I think he means to look after her. He told me to ask you for medical supplies." His voice unconsciously took on Bothari's flattened tone as he repeated the list.

Vorkosigan's eyes widened and he nodded slowly to himself. "Yes, I see." It was more than Illyan did.

"But if--if anything like this should happen again, sir, I will not interfere in what you wish to do." For the first time he met Vorkosigan's eye. "I give you my word."

Vorkosigan nodded slowly. Illyan let out his breath, feeling weak at the knees with shock and relief. Then Vorkosigan's face changed, becoming brisk and businesslike.

"You'd better tell me the whole story. Come and sit down."

Illyan dutifully followed Vorkosigan back into the cabin, perched on the edge of the bunk and replayed the scene from the beginning. Vorkosigan sat with slitted eyes, only the tension in his hands betraying his close attention. At last he said, "Well, I'd better get Bothari his supplies. Can't send you, not with Bothari in his current state, heaven only knows how he'd react to you invading his cabin."

"I cannot--do my duty, sir, if I let you go unaccompanied," Illyan said uneasily. Reminding Vorkosigan of his promise seemed singularly unwise after this. But Vorkosigan only gave a curt nod.

"I know. You can tag along, but keep out of Bothari's sight."

Illyan glanced at his chrono. "You've got a meeting in four minutes, sir."

"Damn. You saw the girl. How urgently do you think Bothari needs that stuff?"

"I don't think it's desperate, sir. It looked like the real problems were--weren't physical."

"Bothari as a psychiatric nurse," Vorkosigan muttered. "Hell." Illyan wasn't sure whether that was a curse or a description. They went out to the meeting.

In the end it was the following day before they brought the medical supplies to Bothari. Illyan had no difficulty in obtaining them from the surgeon and concealing them in his own cabin, but finding a space of time when Vorkosigan could visit Bothari without attracting attention was harder. But after some concentrated effort from Illyan in manipulating schedules, they went to the door of Bothari's cabin.

Vorkosigan gave a firm double knock, and waited. There was a long delay before the door opened a crack, and the gargoyle face of Bothari appeared. Some kind of tension left him when he saw Vorkosigan, and he said, "Commodore."

Vorkosigan took the package from Illyan. "I understand you have a use for this," he said. Bothari snatched it from him and began to open it. He gave a short nod.

"Thank you, sir."

Vorkosigan peered curiously around the door. "Is there anything more you need, Sergeant?"

Illyan knew the moment Vorkosigan saw the girl. The muscles along his back all tensed at once and he drew in a sharp breath. Then, in almost a whisper, he said, "If you need any help, anything at all, ask me. I give you my word I'll provide it."

"Thank you, sir," said Bothari, still toneless. He closed the door firmly in Vorkosigan's face. For a moment, Vorkosigan stood quite still. Then he turned around, and Illyan swallowed at his expression. But he simply began to march through the ship to his own quarters, Illyan at his heels. He paused outside the door of Vorkosigan's cabin, but Vorkosigan gestured for him to enter. The door sealed shut behind them.

"Damn you, Lieutenant. And damn Ezar, and damn this invasion, and damn--" He broke off. He paced across the room and back again, picked up a heavy synthglass tumbler and hurled it at the wall. It was shatterproof, but it split into two neat halves. Vorkosigan picked up a data case to send after it, then set it down again with a control that was more alarming than his rage. Illyan stood by the door and tried to melt into the wall, but Vorkosigan's eyes fixed on him. He drew breath as if to speak, then let it out again, and collapsed onto the desk chair.

"I need a drink," he muttered. Illyan wondered if that was a request, and whether he ought to fulfil it or not. His chip produced records of many previous alcoholic episodes in Vorkosigan's career. Vorkosigan seemed to read his thoughts from his face, for he added glumly, "S'all right. I don't get plastered on duty." Illyan wondered what had happened to his normal impassive expression and struggled to recall it.

"You've done all you can for her, now," Illyan offered after a long silence.

"I can give her the revenge she is owed," Vorkosigan returned hotly.

Illyan said nothing, judging this to be venting rather than planning, and he was proved right when Vorkosigan filled in his half of the conversation for him.

"I know, I know, I've got to keep up appearances, play my part, all that horseshit. Do my duty." For a moment he looked wretched, then anger covered him again. "And it's not my damned duty to keep Ges from being a--" He fell silent.

Illyan considered the tensions searing through Vorkosigan, trying to analyse rather than sympathise. Two months of not reacting to Vorrutyer and Serg were running through Vorkosigan's patience and temper. It was amazing the man hadn't fallen apart already. But his military performance was as clean and perfect as it had been at the start. Now this, on top of the rest of the load… Illyan's head ached at the thought.

"What have I got next?" Vorkosigan asked wearily. "If Ges is involved..."

"No, sir. No further meetings today. Tomorrow there's a courier arriving to take us to the Tau Cetan wormhole."

"Oh, yes. Good."

Getting Vorkosigan away from this madhouse would do him some good, Illyan hoped, even in the company of the Prince. Rather weakly, he said, "Shall I fetch you some supper, sir?"

The look Vorkosigan gave him made him wish he had not spoken. "Just leave me alone for a while."

Illyan considered and discarded the idea of trying to argue Vorkosigan into eating. He nodded, saluted and left.


	9. Chapter 9

Their courier docked on the heavy cruiser _Vengeance_ after a very fast run through Escobaran space. The Tau Cetan wormhole was very close, Illyan saw on the schema. When the Escobarans out there had themselves organised enough to jump through, the _Vengeance_ would be first in line.

Captain Tugalov was waiting for them in the docking bay with his officers. Some of them looked awfully young, Illyan thought. All the ships had taken losses by now, but a few of Tugalov's officers looked like they'd been sent straight from the Academy to the warzone. But they received the Prince and Commodore Vorkosigan with all due formality, though Tugalov's eyes widened as he took in the six bodyguards and aide-de-camp accompanying the Prince, and Illyan's ImpSec insignia.

They exchanged regulation salutes and greetings. Illyan noticed that Tugalov was looking at Vorkosigan as eagerly as a little boy on his birthday.

"I don't suppose you remember me, sir," he began.

Vorkosigan tilted his head. "Let me think … ah. Lieutenant Tugalov. Comm officer on the _Victoria_. You were the man who brought me the news of the capture of the solar mirror at Komarr."

Tugalov looked wildly gratified. The Prince glowered at them both, and Vorkosigan's expression turned blank. Tugalov returned his attention to the Prince, all politeness. "Permit me to show you my ship, sir."

The bodyguards trailed after them as Tugalov began to usher the Prince away, leaving Vorkosigan with the executive officer, Commander Jones. He looked at Vorkosigan and Illyan in the shadows behind him.

"Commodore Vorkosigan, sir. I'm very pleased that you're here." Another veteran of Komarr, most likely. "And, ah, your aide?" He gave Illyan a perplexed look.

"This is Lieutenant Illyan. My spy."

Jones swallowed, but managed to nod courteously, his gaze flickering again to the Horus-eyes on Illyan's collar. It could have been worse, Illyan thought as he returned the nod. After he had suggested--very mildly--that Vorkosigan could use the time in the courier as a chance to catch up on his sleep, Vorkosigan had threatened to introduce him as his nanny. The gibe was a little too close to the truth right now.

Commander Jones turned back to Vorkosigan, his expression abstracted. "I hadn't expected so many. We're only a Thunder-class cruiser and there's not a lot of spare space, especially with the aft lower deck still being repaired. I've already got all my junior officers doubling up and I can't squeeze the men any further." His gaze flicked anxiously to Illyan. "Would you mind sharing with the Prince's ADC? I'm going to have to cram his bodyguards into two cabins too few already…" he trailed off distractedly, reminding Illyan of a busy housewife before Winterfair.

Illyan and Vorkosigan exchanged a glance of perfect understanding. Sharing a cabin with the Prince's closest ally on this ship, who undoubtedly had orders to find a way to murder him secretly, did not appeal.

"Perhaps Illyan had better bunk with me," Vorkosigan said. "It'll make it easier for me to haul him along whenever I have to go anywhere."

Jones looked both surprised and relieved at this suggestion. "I--well, if that's all right with you, it would be most helpful, sir."

"Fine, that's settled. Let's get started." Vorkosigan hustled them both down the corridor. "You'd better show me what you've planned so far and we'll take it from there."

The day was taken up with the arrival of the rest of the flotilla, briefing the other ship captains and a lengthy discussion with Prince Serg about strategy. To Illyan's surprise and relief, Serg's ideas about what they should do were not wholly ridiculous, and there were fewer clashes between him and Vorkosigan than Illyan would have imagined possible. Perhaps it was because Serg's anger seemed to have been diverted upon Illyan himself. The main problem was the state of the flotilla, since there were no ships in it that had not suffered damage during the earlier fighting to drive the Escobarans back to their planetary orbitals. On the flagship, Illyan had not entirely realised the extent of their losses during the earlier fighting.

They escaped after supper quickly, Vorkosigan pleading work, abandoning the job of entertaining the Prince to Captain Tugalov and his officers. Back in their cabin, Vorkosigan settled himself at the console and Illyan sat on the lower bunk and began to read a book-film, attempting to afford Vorkosigan some illusion of privacy. But after a time it became clear that Vorkosigan was staring into space and ignoring the reports on the holo-screen. He looked round at Illyan.

"You must be too young to remember Yuri's civil war."

As a conversation-starter, that had all the subtlety of a high-explosive bomb. "I was a baby when he was executed," Illyan agreed. "My father died in the battle of Lorimel River." He paused for timing. If Vorkosigan was throwing bombs around… "He was fighting for Yuri."

Vorkosigan blinked at that, diverted from whatever train of thought he had been pursuing. "Unusual that you should be in ImpSec, then. They're normally very picky about their candidates' backgrounds."

"My father was only a non-com, a sergeant. He didn't really care much about Yuri, but he was very loyal to his captain, and his captain wouldn't break his oath to Yuri even though he was upset by what he saw. The captain tried to urge my father to desert to Ezar's side, or go on a long leave, but my father wouldn't do that. He was killed saving his captain's life in the battle. The captain was executed as a traitor afterwards."

It was, Illyan frequently thought, a typically Barrayaran story. Everyone suffers for their honour and it all borders on being pointless. Perhaps a good playwright or novelist could make something interesting out of it. Vorkosigan looked sick.

"I'm sorry," he said. Illyan shrugged.

"It was a long time ago. I never really knew him, and I only found out the whole story later on. But Negri didn't think it meant I was likely to be a security risk."

"I suppose not." The lines in Vorkosigan's face deepened. "Would you do what they did? Stick to your oath even if you decided the man you'd given it to wasn't worthy of it?"

"I don't know." It was Illyan's turn to frown, as he realised what Vorkosigan must be thinking and suggesting in this roundabout way. He refrained from asking Vorkosigan if he would follow his father's footsteps; it was all too obvious that he would. Besides, there was no way he could avoid taking formal notice of Vorkosigan plotting treason out loud.

A thought burst in his mind. He had heard stories of what ImpSec had been under Yuri, and he had studied enough history to know of hundreds of other security forces which had been used by vicious rulers to terrorise their peoples, but the idea that he might suddenly find himself a member of such a force had never before occurred to him. And what then would he do? Ordered to move against the Emperor's enemies real or imagined, capture them, torture them, assassinate them… he stared at Vorkosigan and realised who would be first on Prince Serg's list of enemies when he took power.

Vorkosigan was watching him under his heavy-lidded eyes, shrewd and knowing. The last lingering shreds of prudence prevented Illyan from saying what was in his mind. Instead, after the silence had stretched nerve-tight, he answered.

"I think," he said slowly, "it would have to be very bad before I would break my oath."

"Oh," Vorkosigan breathed, "it would be."

*

Illyan gazed phlegmatically at the tactical display and hoped Vorkosigan was as good a strategist as rumour said. Jumpscout reports had given a clear picture of the Escobaran ships mustering at the far side of the wormhole jump point, and another group of Escobarans were forming up around the nearest orbital station, evidently planning a sortie to push through to link up with them. To meet this assault was the battle group under the command of the Prince and Vorkosigan, and it had taken all Vorkosigan's tact to get a half-decent plan formed with very little time.

Now everything was a bustle of preparations and checks as they waited for the Escos to make a move. Illyan leaned back in his station chair and consciously calmed himself, as he had been taught to do before any action. Not that he would be taking part in the action here, but the tense atmosphere was infecting him. Only Vorkosigan seemed truly at ease as he sat by Captain Tugalov and listened as the departments reported their status.

"Sir." The ensign's interrupting voice was breathy with nerves. Captain Tugalov rotated in his station chair. "Sir, there's something wrong with the main fore plasma cannon. It's not responding to the targeting commands."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know yet, sir. Could be another burned-out relay somewhere, but I thought we tested them all..."

"Well, find out and get it fixed."

The ensign flushed and looked at his screen. He was one of the very young officers, Illyan observed. Surely a ship of this class should have someone more senior as Weaponry Officer? The young man was listening to a report through his earbug and murmuring orders in a hesitant tone. Illyan heard the phrases 'I'm sorry' and 'I don't know' more than once.

Vorkosigan glanced at Tugalov, checking that he wasn't treading on the captain's toes, and went to look at the ensign's work more closely.

"What kind of cannon do you have here?" he asked.

"V-27s, sir. The old model."

"Ah, that's the first one I ever used in a real fight. Good weapons. You been making modifications to the software?"

"Not recently, sir. You think it's a bug?"

"Could be, or it could be one of the control relays, or there's always the main bearing. Get your engineering crew on it."

"Yes, sir." The weapons officer looked a little awestruck, and very relieved to have someone with solid experience interesting himself in the problem.

"I started out as a weapons officer on a ship like this," Vorkosigan remarked to the room at large. "Good ship."

Illyan saw the awe in the ensign's face turn to hope and desire, and he turned back to his engineering reports with resolve. That boy would do anything for Vorkosigan now, Illyan thought. He wondered if he would ever be able to inspire men like that. Well, if he couldn't learn from Vorkosigan he would have to be a hopeless case indeed.

The Prince had been loftily ignoring the discussion of junior officers, but now he spoke.

"If this ship is inactive I will transfer my flag to the _Star Bridge_." That comment, Illyan noted, lowered the morale of the officers as neatly as Vorkosigan's words had lifted it.

"Sir, none of the other ships in the battle group have such good communication links and tactical systems," Vorkosigan answered at once with remarkable patience. "In a real emergency, the _Star Bridge_ can command, but it would not be ideal. I think you would find the accommodation there more cramped, also."

The Prince scowled. "You just want an excuse to lurk in the rear."

The other officers froze at the implied accusation, but both Vorkosigan and Illyan had heard this so frequently that it barely registered. All he said was, "I assure you, in a group of this size, every ship fights."

That remark closed the conversation for a while and the officers returned to their work. Illyan watched them and felt a twinge of jealousy. It had been a long time since he'd honestly dreamed of ship command, and he knew Intelligence work suited him well; it was the common effort he envied here, and the camaderie of the officers. He'd been working solo for too long, he wanted to get back to teamwork rather than bearing all the responsibility alone.

The weaponry officer was still looking frantic as he sorted through reports and spoke into his comm link.

"What's your status?" Captain Tugalov queried after a while.

"It's still not responding, sir," the ensign answered. "We can't seem to find anything."

"What do you mean, you can't find anything?" the Prince interjected. "It's your damn job to find out what's wrong. Are you the weaponry officer or the ship's cat?"

"Lay off," Vorkosigan muttered. The ensign looked despairing. "Have you done an external check yet?"

"No, sir. Not with the attack so near."

"What exactly are you getting as your fault reports?" Vorkosigan asked.

With a relieved expression, the ensign spouted technical jargon. Illyan let his chip file it without paying much attention. Vorkosigan listened with the distant attentiveness of an expert doctor taking a case history, asking a few questions.

"I think it's the bearing," Vorkosigan said at last. "They do wear out in time, and that's exactly the pattern of faults you get. I had this happen on me one time when--well, never mind that. When was the last time it was replaced?"

The ensign tapped into his console. "Two years ago, sir."

"And you saw heavy combat in the last two engagements, didn't you? You need to send a work party out there to replace it right now. Get your chief engineer on it."

"We've lost our chief engineer, sir. A plasma coil exploded in his face three days ago. He's on the hospital ship now. His second was killed. There's supposed to be a replacement coming over, but he hasn't arrived yet. Our techs are good at the ordinary stuff, but I don't know about this..."

"Well, someone's got to go," Vorkosigan said. "Only volunteers, naturally, this close to action, but the action won't last long without the main cannon."

The ensign began to scan through his duty rosters, a little hopelessly. "I don't know who's ever done this repair before," he said.

"Didn't you say you knew all about these cannons, Vorkosigan?" The Prince had been speaking quietly with his ADC, and his interruption made them all start. "Why don't you go?"

"I have worked on this particular problem before," Vorkosigan admitted. "But--"

"Very well, then. You may as well make yourself useful."

Illyan opened his mouth to object, but shut it again. Drawing more of the Prince's negative attention would not be wise, and Vorkosigan was quite capable of holding his own in an argument. Captain Tugalov was staring at the Prince, and the other officers were looking to their captain in equal surprise. Engineering repairs were a long way outside the purview of a staff officer, even if Vorkosigan did have the relevant experience; it was, Illyan thought, as humiliating as ordering a lieutenant to do a batman's job. Quite in the Prince's style, in other words.

Vorkosigan grimaced, gave Tugalov a quelling look and said, "As you wish, sir. Ensign, get the parts sorted and have a squad of eight techs at the nearest airlock. We'll get started right away." He turned to Illyan. "You can monitor communications from inside if you prefer, Lieutenant."

"Oh," said the Prince before Illyan could consider this suggestion, "surely you can't say you have to follow your master into private, personal conversations with Ges and me, but leave him alone for this?"

Illyan jerked his head in answer. "I'll come with you, sir." He ignored the Prince. It would be within the letter of his orders, just, to stay inside, but he would rather not remain on the bridge with the Prince and no Vorkosigan to focus his attention, especially with the Prince in this mood.

There was a delay whilst the ensign organised his men and Vorkosigan sat at a desk and went through the schema of the plasma cannon more carefully, reminding himself of the construction. The Prince was conferring with one of his men and looking at the tactical display.

It was not long before Illyan followed Vorkosigan through to an airlock where a sergeant from Engineering and a team of men were suiting up under the inquisitive eye of the Prince's aide-de-camp. Illyan took the suit that was given to him and accessed his chip for the details of the suit-check. He went through the procedure, then swapped suits with Vorkosigan for the double-check. Mindful of his batman's role he helped Vorkosigan suit up, set his comm link to have a constant feed from Vorkosigan's headset and allowed the corporal in charge of the equipment to help him into his own suit.

They pushed one by one out of the airlock in the slow balletic movement that was necessary outside the ship. Spacewalks were part of standard training for ImpSec galactic agents, and this was not the first time Illyan had been outside, but he had never before seen the exterior of a heavy cruiser. The external lights had been switched on so that they would be able to see their way, but beyond the ship was the immense darkness of space. Illyan felt tiny.

Vorkosigan was moving confidently up the side, and Illyan followed. The work team were clustered around them, tools and monitors strapped to their suits, but there was no sound other than the slight hissing of his suit's rebreather. The silence was unsettling, and Illyan nearly lost his hand-hold when Vorkosigan's voice came suddenly over the comm link.

"Right, sergeant. We need to get the muzzle off, and open her up."

The main plasma cannon's mouth was enormous, but in the weightlessness of space it took only three men to ease it free. Illyan found a good grip out of the way of the working men and watched as they moved in a measured sarabande, passing tools and scanners from hand to hand as they worked as delicately as a surgical team operating on a patient.

Illyan let the chatter over the comm links go straight to his chip, incomprehensible discussions of spiders and surface wear. He amused himself by calculating exactly where the first Esco jumpscout would emerge into local space, then tried to work out how they would fan out over the system. Right _there_. Then there would be a short space whilst the scout detected the cruisers, then went back to report. And then the Esco ships would start jumping in. Normally, the first ship through a defended wormhole was little better than a suicide run, hoping only to get an accurate report of the situation to the rest of the battle group, but with the _Vengeance's_ main weapons system down the Escos would have a tremendous advantage.

A headache was beginning behind his eyes from the tension of waiting. He looked back at the repairs. They were removing an enormous bearing from its casing, and Vorkosigan was saying, "There, you see that? Completely worn. Get the new one over here now."

Over the private link to Vorkosigan's com, Illyan heard the weapons officer from inside the ship. "Commodore. Current best guess from our jumpscout is that the Escos will be here in about half an hour. Could be sooner. How much more have you got to do?"

Illyan's eyes were drawn magnetically to the spot where he had calculated the enemy would emerge.

"We're about halfway through. I'll send some of the men back, we don't need them all for the rest." Then Vorkosigan spoke privately to Illyan. "You hear that, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you want to go back with the men, you may."

"No, sir." Illyan's response was automatic, despite the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd chosen this plan, now he'd better stick to it.

"Very well."

Vorkosigan relayed the message to the non-com in charge, Sergeant Medhi, and three of the men were sent back after they slotted the new bearing into its hole. The others remained, fitting the other end of the pipe into place and testing it. No Escos appeared.

"All right. Now we get the muzzle back on, then they can test it down at Weaponry, and if it passes we're done, sir," Medhi reported.

"Oh, fuck!" came across Illyan's channel, making him jump. Everyone was looking down at the innards of the cannon.

"It's cracked, sir," said one of the men, his voice painfully level. "We'll have to replace it."

Illyan replayed his chip and saw what had happened. One of the men had moved incautiously and struck a section of pipework with his toolbox. Medhi was chewing him out ferociously.

"That's the plasma feed," Vorkosigan said, also level-voiced. "Sergeant, save it for later."

"We don't have a replacement here," Medhi said. "I'll send someone back to get one."

"No time for that," Vorkosigan said shortly. "No. We'll just do a bit of a re-route... here, you see? We can just go around. Lieutenant, we'll need another pair of hands for this."

Illyan moved in closer and found himself drafted to help hold the muzzle whilst one of the more experienced techs went in to help with the new repair. He watched curiously as Vorkosigan gave orders and gestured. He seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the innards of the plasma cannon, and Illyan couldn't help thinking that it was just as well the Prince had sent him out here.

"All right. Let's try this again now. Control, please test the pressure in the feed pipe."

The weapons officer's voice came back a few moments later. "The board is green, sir. And, um, the Esco jumpscout has just come through. It won't be more than about twenty minutes before this place gets really hot."

"Good. We'll get this in place, and then you take your men back, Medhi. We don't need you to do up the screws and run the rotation tests."

There was a brief argument as the sergeant tried to persuade Vorkosigan to return instead, which Vorkosigan won. Illyan gathered that Medhi had been at Komarr, since he called Vorkosigan 'Admiral' in parting. As the suited figures descended along the hull and out of sight towards the airlock, Illyan forced himself to stop looking for enemy ships and pay attention to the plasma cannon.

"Last checks now," Vorkosigan said. Illyan made no response. He wished his heart would stop pounding. He'd faced death many times, waited with his own life and the lives of others in the balance before, but for some reason this time his stomach was full of butterflies, his hands clammy in the atmosphere-controlled suit, and his breath fast in his chest. Perhaps it was the surroundings. He knew he had no latent agoraphobia--ImpSec's psychologists were picky about such things--but combination of the empty darkness and the tension might be the problem.

His mind wandered. Was Vorkosigan suicidal, to volunteer to stay out here? He recalled Vorkosigan's equally suicidal plans for the retreat, then gave a jaw-splitting yawn, and wondered how he could feel both tired and strung-out at once.

"Right, that looks good. Hold this for me, Lieutenant, and we'll tighten these screws and then we can get the hell out of here."

Illyan heard the words, but did not move. He couldn't catch his breath. It felt like giant hands were squeezing his chest.

"Wake up, this is no time for daydreaming."

Vorkosigan's tone was acerbic, and Illyan tried to force himself to respond. _Go help fix the plasma cannon._ The movement he attempted made his vision grey out, and he gasped like a landed fish.

"Is something wrong? Lieutenant, report!"

The sharp commanding tones forced a response from Illyan, product of years of drills. "Can't breathe, sir," he managed.

There was a pause, then Vorkosigan's muttered curses filled his ears.

"Your suit should have been sounding alarms ten minutes ago. O2 saturation is way below the minimum."

Oxygen deprivation. His chip poured the symptoms into his oddly sluggish mind. Lethargy. Flu-like symptoms. Nausea. Breathlessness. Coma. Death. A very nasty death. At least it wasn't cowardice, he thought muzzily. He tried to get his mind to start. An image appeared of himself checking his suit according to the standard routine before donning it, he and Vorkosigan doing the equally standard double-checks of each other's suits. They had seemed fine. Had he missed something in Vorkosigan's as well? His duty roused him.

"Check yours," he whispered.

"Just did, it's fine. Stay with me, Illyan."

Vorkosigan was moving towards him, reaching for his suit's life-support mechanisms. Illyan couldn't see what he was doing--it was a little behind him, and his vision was fading anyway.

"Escos in fifteen minutes, sir. You'd better get back here on the double."

"Not yet. Got a situation here."

"Sir, we can send the party back..."

"By the time they got suited up and out here again it would be too late. No point. We'll get this done."

It was a moment before he identified the voices as coming from Vorkosigan's comm link. Fifteen minutes. It took five minutes to get back to the airlock. Vorkosigan should leave off whatever he was doing to the rebreather, get the plasma cannon sorted and get himself inside, not waste precious time with this. That long without oxygen would kill him anyway, if the Escos didn't get him first. The thought was quite clear in his head, but he couldn't seem to find the mental pathways that would permit him to speak. He felt oddly distant from his body. Even his heaving stomach seemed to belong to someone else.

"There. You'll be all right now."

There was a draught. How could there be a draught in space? Suddenly and violently he was aware of the nausea again and the shaking of his hands. He swallowed hard. _Don't vomit in a space suit._

"Sir? What have you done?"

"Got you some oxygen. Can you continue?"

"Yes, sir." Illyan willed the sickness and tremors to leave him. Fifteen minutes till the battle would start. He looked at Vorkosigan's space suit and blinked as his brain slowly came back online.

"Shit, sir, what is that?" The words escaped as he saw that the air pipe from Vorkosigan's rebreather was now attached to his suit. It was, his chip told him, a standard procedure for emergency situations, but he'd never actually seen it done before.

"When my suit alarms start going off you can switch it back. There's a fair bit of atmospheric oxygen in the suit as it is. Just keep within the length of the tube. Now, if you hold this…"

They worked their way around the cannon, fastening all the screws. Illyan nearly dropped the screwdriver when an earsplitting siren went off. He secured it hastily to his belt and turned to face Vorkosigan.

"Time to swap over, sir," he said, having to shout to be heard over the siren. "Can you shut that thing off?"

"Better not."

Illyan found the outlet where Vorkosigan's oxygen tube was attached to his spacesuit and detached it. There was a second's hiss, then the outlet self-sealed. He fitted it back onto Vorkosigan's own suit, the siren still deafening him. A moment later it fell silent.

"Are you all right?"

"Think so. Tell me when you start feeling the effects again and we'll change."

They fastened the final screw, then Vorkosigan called Control. "Run your tests. It all looks good here."

They waited. Illyan felt the nausea and light-headedness return, and spoke over their link. "Think you'd better change over again, sir."

"Hold still, then."

Illyan forced himself not to hold his breath as Vorkosigan again went through the delicate business of disconnecting the oxygen tube. Feeling better at once, he listened to the weaponry officer speaking to Vorkosigan.

"It's all moving properly, sir. You'd better hurry back."

"No need to say that, Ensign." Vorkosigan's voice was oddly cheerful considering their dangerous predicament. "Ready, Lieutenant?"

Illyan only grunted. Moving in null-gee over the hull of a spaceship whilst tethered to another man's oxygen supply was by no means easy. It reminded Illyan of the three-legged races that had been popular when he was a schoolboy, only with a far more deadly fate if they failed to move together. They moved side by side, attempting to coordinate their steps in the awkward gait caused by magnetic boots. Illyan was desperately aware of the imminent Esco cruisers. The ship's shields might protect them from an attack, but once their own plasma cannon was fired they would certainly be caught up in the backwash.

Vorkosigan's suit siren went off again. Vorkosigan shouted over it. "No time to play around. We'll get back there before it can actually do me any harm."

Illyan ran calculations in his head. They were a little more than three minutes from the lock. There should be enough oxygen in the safety margin to keep Vorkosigan alive till then. But the exertion of walking along the ship would consume oxygen more quickly than Illyan had whilst watching the repairs.

"Very well, but I'll tow you."

If Vorkosigan protested this, it was too quietly to be heard over the alarm. Illyan caught hold of Vorkosigan's arm with one hand and with the other pressed the safety override to release his magnetic boots. In null-gee this manoeuvre was remarkably easy, and he trod along as quickly as he could. After a moment the siren stopped, and he felt the sudden relief of quiet.

"That's better," Vorkosigan muttered. "Need to be able to hear Control."

They approached the lock at last. Illyan saw that Vorkosigan's oxygen levels were dangerously low, and he tried to go faster.

"Commodore! Five-space distortion on the wormhole--first ship is coming through! How far are you?"

Illyan answered for Vorkosigan. "Ten seconds. Open the lock, please."

"It's open."

As they came into the lighted area of the lock, he saw that it was indeed standing open. A very dangerous thing to do, but understandable, and Illyan's first thoughts were of gratitude. He gripped the handhold and pulled them both inside.

"Cycle the lock, we're in," he said at once. The airlock seemed to close with painful slowness. Then the artificial gravity kicked in as the air was pumped back into the lock, and Illyan staggered as he tried to keep his own balance and support Vorkosigan. As soon as the warning lights turned green, he wrenched off Vorkosigan's helmet. Vorkosigan's lips were blue and his face an alarming grey, but his eyes were open. He drew several ragged breaths and his colour improved. When he was steady on his feet, Illyan released him and unfastened his own helmet. Carefully he laid it on the floor away from Vorkosigan's. He would need to investigate the fault, or sabotage, or whatever it was.

Vorkosigan grinned at him suddenly. "Well, that was exciting."

Illyan glared. He found he was shaking slightly with reaction. "Do you have any idea how risky it was?" He got a clear look at the tubing running from Vorkosigan's rebreather to his own, and his eyes widened. "If you'd cut that a few millimetres to the right… you shouldn't have done that."

"If it comes to that, you should have remained inside, or gone back with the men. You wouldn't have got into this fix if you hadn't stuck your neck out for me."

The inner door slid open then, and Sergeant Medhi came in.

"If you'd cut that any tighter you'd have been toast," he said with a look of respect for Vorkosigan. "It's all working now, and the Escos are jumping in." He scanned them both. "Do you need a medic, sir?" His gaze flickered from Vorkosigan to Illyan, and Illyan wondered if he looked as pale and ill as Vorkosigan. "What happened?" He reached towards the oxygen tube curiously.

"Leave that, please," said Illyan sharply.

"Something malfunctioned in the Lieutenant's rebreather," Vorkosigan explained.

"Malfunctioned," Illyan echoed dryly. "Perhaps. I'll need a forensics kit, and I'll have to go over my entire suit, so don't touch anything from it or let anyone else do so, please." As he spoke he was unfastening the suit with great delicacy, watching all his own movements so as to have a clear record of every detail.

"I can get you one, sir," said Medhi. He looked again at Vorkosigan and repeated, "And a medic?"

"I'm fine," said Vorkosigan dismissively. Medhi took the hint and left.

"Not a malfunction?" Vorkosigan said as the door slid shut again.

"Well, it's not impossible, but under the circumstances..." Illyan did not need to name the suspect who came first to his mind. He forced himself to remain open to all possibilities, and let the evidence speak for itself. He laid his suit out neatly by a locker, whilst Vorkosigan put his off rather less carefully.

Vorkosigan's comm link beeped, and an anxious Captain Tugalov spoke. "Commodore, have you got back all right? We could use you on the bridge." Illyan recognised the note of frustration and worry in his voice that meant that the Prince was around, undoubtedly making his own 'contributions'.

Vorkosigan did not answer it, but jerked his head at Illyan. "We need to get up there. Can your forensics wait?"

"So long as this is undisturbed."

Medhi re-entered with the forensics kit.

"Sorry, Sergeant, we're going to have to go," Illyan said. "I'll put this in an empty locker and seal it. Don't let anyone, no matter who, touch it until I return to go over it properly."

"Right you are, sir." Medhi looked at the suit suspiciously. "You think it was foul play?"

"I don't know anything yet. The warning didn't go off when the oxygen level dropped, and it should have done. I'll go over it later."

Vorkosigan was donning his uniform jacket and moving to the door. Illyan followed, straightening his own uniform. He took long deep breaths as he did so, enjoying the sensation. He saw Vorkosigan was doing the same. At the entrance to the bridge, Vorkosigan paused.

"Well, we'll see who looks surprised to see you," he murmured. There was a note of real anger in his voice that surprised Illyan.

All heads swung around as they entered. The Prince and his ADC both scowled at Illyan, which made him faintly satisfied at his deduction even though his chip pointed out that they'd scowled every time they'd seen him for weeks.

"You cut that very fine," the Prince said. "I thought you knew how to fix these things. We were nearly too late."

"Lieutenant Illyan had a problem with his oxygen supply," Vorkosigan said curtly. "A suit malfunction, presumably. It delayed us."

The Prince raised an elegant eyebrow. "A problem with the oxygen supply? How unfortunate." He smiled a little. "But you haven't managed to lose your watchdog even so. What a shame."

Vorkosigan stared straight at the Prince. "I have always believed that however little you may have wished for one, once you have a dog, he's your responsibility."

Illyan suppressed a smile with difficulty. With such a show of support from Vorkosigan, the Prince would be very slow to dare a third attempt on his life. He was pleased too for another reason: it may not have been the method he would have wished to use, but it was clear that he had a certain measure of influence over Vorkosigan again.


	10. Chapter 10

The battle for the Tau Cetan wormhole went on for eight days, in the slow motion of space battles. The Barrayaran flotilla drove back the first wave of attackers and bunched them up around the wormhole exit, not quite in retreat. Then there was a long stalemate. The Escobarans' defensive position was almost unassailable, but they could not make an attack without being picked off easily. The Prince argued for a suicide mission to break them up, but Vorkosigan talked him down, and everyone hunkered down for a long wait. Then a second wave of attackers came through, straight into the trap Vorkosigan and the Prince had prepared for them. The battle ran on rails after that, and the wormhole was decisively held by the Barrayarans.

Illyan managed to steal half an hour to investigate his spacesuit thoroughly, under Sergeant Medhi's fascinated eye. On the main oxygen hose he found traces of a corrosive substance, one commonly used in by the maintenance and repair team. It could, theoretically, have found its way onto the hose by accident, but Illyan didn't believe in those kinds of accidents. And the O2 warning siren had been removed completely, which could never have been an accident. Questioning of Medhi and his men revealed that the Prince's aide-de-camp had been helping lay out the suits before Vorkosigan and Illyan arrived. Not evidence enough for a court, but Illyan wasn't planning to take anything before the clumsy arm of military justice. Vorkosigan's support had been enough to warn the Prince off any further attempts for the time being.

Prince Serg returned to the flagship as soon as it was clear that the interesting parts of the battle were over, leaving Vorkosigan with the mopping up and preparing a solid defence for the wormhole in the future. The military problems were rather relaxing, to Illyan's way of thinking; much easier to resolve than the poisonous battles amongst the Staff, and the never-ending war between Illyan's orders and his conscience.

Vorkosigan was recalled a few days afterwards. The last day had been rather dull, the mopping up done and the reports written. Vorkosigan had taken to pacing about the _Vengeance_ looking for things to inspect, and Illyan had learned more than he had ever cared to know about the ship's pipes and ducts. Mercifully, early in the next day-cycle, the tight-beam orders recalling him came through, and the fast courier arrived several hours after.

Illyan found himself growing tense as they drew near the flagship. He saw Vorkosigan close too, his face turning cold and blank as they approached, and tried to think of something to say to lift the mood.

"It all seems to be going well so far," he commented as Vorkosigan idly reread the latest reports.

"For the time being."

"Do you really still think it's going to fail?"

Vorkosigan's lips thinned. "Of course it will. Taking the local space is the easy part, and we've already had more casualties and equipment loss than the Staff planned for. You saw the state old _Vengeance_ was in. We'll never take the planet unless someone decides to raze it with nuclears."

Illyan sat mutely. He ran a search through all the Staff meetings he'd sat through over the past months, just in case someone had floated the suggestion of putting all Escobar to fire. Mercifully, nobody had. Surely nobody would start arguing for that as a way to end the war?

He must have been looking unnerved, for Vorkosigan took pity on him. "It won't come to that. If only because a radioactive planet can't be settled or assimilated or taxed. And even the Prince might realise what a public relations disaster it would be."

"True."

After that he made no more attempts at conversation, and they reached the flagship without incident. Immediately on their arrival an ensign approached.

"Admiral Vorrutyer would like you to join him in Briefing Room One, sir."

Vorkosigan gave a barely audible sigh and nodded. "Is it a meeting of the entire Staff?"

"Just Admiral Vorrutyer, Admiral Vorhalas and the Prince, sir."

"Very well."

The meeting was in full swing when they entered, and after some swift greetings Vorhalas returned to what he had been saying before.

"I tell you, we're too thinly spread. The Escos are happy to pick us off one by one around the wormhole jumps, and wait for us to walk into their traps."

"We have control of local space now," Vorrutyer returned. "Nothing is getting through to them. It's time to start thinking about the next step."

"Almost nothing is getting through," Vorhalas muttered. Vorkosigan turned sharply to face him.

"What's this?"

Vorhalas looked uncomfortable. "A convoy got through while you were away. Through the Beta jump right here."

Illyan's eyes fastened on Vorkosigan, an almost instinctive reaction Vorkosigan's sudden increase in tension.

"A convoy from Beta?"

"It was just three freighters and a dreadnought. We got the big one, but the freighters got away. Caught some Betans in a lifeboat, too." Prince Serg smiled complacently. "No need to be so jumpy, Aral."

"You do know what Beta Colony's main export is, don't you?" Vorkosigan snapped. "Keeping the Escos from getting better weapon systems is vital to the success of this little show."

"What can they get in three freighters?" drawled Vorrutyer. "A consignment of plasma arcs and spare shuttle parts? It's the warship we needed to keep away, and we got that, no problem." He pushed a disc across the table. "Here's the battle data—you can do the analysis on it if you're so worried. I've got better things to do now."

Vorkosigan passed it back to Illyan, who stuck it into the batch of files he was already holding, and the meeting broke up. Illyan noticed Vorrutyer making for the door at once, and let out his breath. He had feared that Vorrutyer would want to begin his baiting of Vorkosigan now that they were back. But it seemed they were being spared that, at least for now.

Prince Serg, however, remained. "You look at that data," he said, gesturing to the disc Illyan held. "See just who brought down that dreadnought. You think you're so much better than the rest of us, but you weren't even here for it."

Vorkosigan gave an abbreviated bow, and Illyan caught his almost-amused expression.

"Don't think I don't know what your game is. But you won't be off to the front again. You can just stay here, you and your precious watchdog, and let the people who matter lead."

He whisked out, leaving Vorkosigan alone with Vorhalas. Some of the tension left his stance.

"Glad you're back," Vorhalas said.

"You've been doing fine," said Vorkosigan. "I'd better take a look at this convoy business, though. I don't like it." He moved towards the door. "You can get some rest now, Rulf. If anything comes up I'll handle it."

Vorhalas smiled, the first smile Illyan had seen all day, and they went their separate ways. Illyan followed Vorkosigan to his cabin.

"Don't you want some lunch, sir?" he asked, not very hopefully, as Vorkosigan made straight for his console and gestured for the battle disc.

"Not hungry," Vorkosigan said briefly. "Go get something for yourself. I expect sifting through this lot is going to take a while."

Illyan frowned, but considering Vorkosigan's sombre expression decided against pressing the point. He nodded and slipped out of the cabin.

It was strange, he thought. Earlier on in this assignment, he'd felt relieved when he'd been dismissed and been able to escape his watchdog's duties. Now he felt the exact opposite. Vorkosigan's cabin was secure; it was the only safe place on the ship; it was, he sometimes thought, the only sane place on the ship.

He entered the officers' mess and found some amusement in the reactions of the other junior officers to his arrival. As he collected a plateful of whatever was being offered—he didn't particularly notice what—he gazed around the room with an intent expression. Everyone here knew about his memory chip and more than a few believed that he recorded every word and movement by every man aboard, expressly to show the Emperor. Now the officers were sitting up a little straighter, quite a lot of the swearing stopped and several conversations were blighted beyond recovery by his bland glance. It was entertaining, and Illyan did not particularly mind that it had prevented him from forming friendships with the other men. ImpSec agents didn't often have friends outside ImpSec in any case, it was too risky and too difficult. He had plenty of respect, and that was what he needed to do his job.

A movement caught his eye and he looked up. Hovering in the doorway between the officers' mess and the common mess a black-fatigued soldier was leaning on the wall, trying to look nonchalant and failing. His eyes met Illyan's and he did not look away. Illyan recognised Corporal Angelov, and his appetite disappeared as the image of when he had last seen the man rose before him. There was an urgency in Angelov's gaze that demanded response. Illyan gave a half-nod of acknowledgement, a bare motion of his head, and the man turned away.

Illyan did not hurry out. He pushed the food around on his plate a while longer, tried to choke a few more mouthfuls down and sipped water. What did Angelov want from him? He hadn't judged the man to be particularly subtle, but he did not overlook the possibility that Angelov was going to try blackmail. But Angelov could have only the faintest glimmerings of Vorkosigan's intentions on learning of the treatment of the Escobaran woman, and Illyan knew his own responses could not have given much away.

A memory emerged from his chip. _Caught some Betans in a lifeboat._ On duty in the brig, Angelov would know what was going on with the prisoners. They might have vital intelligence, and Illyan would not have hesitated to administer fast-penta, but what if Vorrutyer or Serg had commanded other methods of extracting information? Angelov had looked sickened enough for that.

Or it could be even worse. His chip provided another memory, a picture of exactly how much worse it could be. Illyan rose abruptly and left the table, then forced himself to moderate his stride as he walked out of the mess. He was too preoccupied to find any satisfaction in the relaxation that swept across the room as he departed. A little way down the bare corridor outside he saw Angelov waiting for him.

"Sir," Angelov began in a breathless undertone, "sir, you've got to do something."

Illyan surveyed him from head to toe, confident that his own expression was perfectly blank. Angelov was nervous, unhappy, sickened.

"Not here," he said in a voice exactly pitched to be quiet enough to elude the low-grade bugs the Political Officers would have in the corridor. Being ImpSec gave one a broad and useful base of knowledge. "What is it, Corporal?" he asked in a louder voice. Angelov—good man—caught his cue.

"I need you to, um, look at something, if you can spare me a moment, sir," he said. His voice was slightly too high and taut to be credible, but perhaps speaking to Negri's right-hand-man would be considered sufficient reason for nerves.

"Very well," said Illyan. He nodded for Angelov to follow him.

The only other room on the ship which had no bugs in it was Illyan's own tiny cabin, which he had swept as a matter of course twice a day. Most of the other lieutenants were two to a cabin, but somehow nobody had been willing to share with Illyan. He led Angelov in and sat casually on his bunk, where he had a clear line to the door and the light fell on Angelov's face whilst his own was in shadow.

"What is it?" he asked quietly. He hoped it was actually something important. If this little jaunt attracted attention, it had better be for something good.

Angelov began to speak, the words tumbling out in disorder. "Sir, it's Admiral Vorrutyer—he's got another woman—one of the Betans we caught earlier. He took her to his cabin, and, and he tied her onto that sick bed of his, and I just heard that Bothari's been sent for."

Illyan's jaw clenched. "What do you think I can do about this?" he asked in deliberately cold tones, not wanting to betray anything to Angelov yet. "I have no authority over the Admiral." The Escobaran woman's face floated mockingly inside his skull, her thin half-starved frame and swollen womb, her dead eyes. _Not again._

"But Commodore Vorkosigan might, might do something," Angelov began uncertainly. "I know what he says about prisoners, one of my mates was on the _General Vorkraft_ with him, he wouldn't let this continue. You could—you could go to him."

Illyan watched Angelov steadily. It was true. He could go to Vorkosigan, and he knew, as Angelov did not, that nothing short of divine intervention would prevent Vorkosigan from taking drastic action. Certainly Illyan could not. Would not. Illyan sat silently for a moment. If he started this, he needed to be prepared to finish it.

 _I give you my word._ Illyan was no Vor, his word not a sacred bond of honour. But Vorkosigan held it as such. And Vorkosigan would learn, one way or another, about this new prisoner, and he would know that Illyan had broken the word he had given him. He could not walk that road, lose the trust Vorkosigan had placed in him, betray his conscience. He glanced up at his locker, at the ikon hanging by it. The angel's swords, his mother had told him, are to defend the innocent and slay the monsters. He sat up very straight.

"Thank you, corporal. I will see what can be done."

Angelov looked ready to drop with relief. "I didn't want any part in it," he said. "But if I'd tried anything the Admiral would just have had me thrown in the brig, and it wouldn't have helped her at all."

"Yes," said Illyan absently, his mind already full of plans. "You'd better go." He paused. "Thank you."

Angelov turned and hurried out. Illyan waited a moment, then checked the power on all his weapons. They were fully charged. He feared he would soon need them.

What would Vorkosigan do? Not nothing, that much he could guess. Would he argue? Confront the Admiral and the Prince? It could go very badly wrong, Illyan began to realise. Was it really worth it, to stop whatever Vorrutyer was doing?

What Vorrutyer was doing. Right now, while he sat here pondering, Vorrutyer was torturing a prisoner. Illyan got up abruptly and went straight to Vorkosigan's cabin.

Vorkosigan was still sitting at his desk, ship manoeuvres gleaming on the screen. He looked up in surprise as Illyan came in.

"Am I late for something?" he asked. "Surely you haven't got the time wrong? What are you doing here?" He took in the tense, unhappy expression Illyan had permitted to cross his face as he entered the cabin, and killed the console display with a wave. "What's happened?"

"Corporal Angelov has just spoken to me," said Illyan carefully. "He reports that Admiral Vorrutyer has another woman prisoner, taken from the Betan convoy. He has her in his cabin now."

Vorkosigan rose to his feet. In a gesture identical to Illyan's five minutes ago, he began to examine the weapons at his belt.

"What are you going to do? Sir?"

"I'm going to kill him."

"But--sir--" Illyan stuttered into silence at the expression on Vorkosigan's face. He took a deep breath. He'd hoped Vorkosigan would settle for threats, perhaps, or blackmail, or some such technique to get the Betan prisoner out, as with Ensign Beauregard. Not killing the Admiral. "I can't--surely there's some other way."

When he had been assigned this job, he had had no doubts that he could use his ImpSec-sharpened abilities to keep Vorkosigan in line. He almost laughed at his naivety now.

Vorkosigan looked at him and sighed. "Lieutenant. Simon. If you want to distance yourself from this, go now. I'll give you five minutes to do whatever you want, establish an alibi, and then I'll do what I want. It should give you a chance to escape--well, what follows."

For a second, a cowardly part of his mind was tempted. He could pull it off--no. Bending his orders to help Vorkosigan was one thing, abandoning his post was another. "No, sir. I must stay with you."

"This is a suicide mission," Vorkosigan said, the words blunt and heavy as bricks. "Volunteers only, Simon. And I know you didn't volunteer for this post."

Illyan realised then that he did still have the power to stop this, to alter Vorkosigan's plan to something less drastic. A little show of reluctance, a reminder of Vorkosigan's word given, a hint that Illyan had no choice… Vorkosigan would not force him into certain dishonour and likely death. No doubt what Negri would want him to do.

His conscience made a final stand. _Defend the innocent and slay the monsters._ He would not play games with this; he had given his word too. But he could think of no words to reassure Vorkosigan with, to make it clear that he would follow willingly and without reproach. At least, no words that were not outright treason.

It came to him then, a gesture from his schooldays, from the play every Barrayaran schoolboy knew, _The Liegeman_. He took a step closer to Vorkosigan and put forward his hands, palms together as if praying, silent. Vorkosigan stared at him, his lips parting with surprise as he recognised the gesture. Then he enclosed Illyan's hands with his own, warm and strong. Neither spoke. The silence, generations of literary and legal scholars had argued, meant that it was not a formal oath, it was not treason, but nonetheless it was real. It was an exchange of trust, of loyalty given and returned. It meant that Illyan was giving Vorkosigan permission to use his life in this cause. And that Vorkosigan would be responsible for the aftermaths.

Barely three seconds had passed. Vorkosigan released his hands--they felt suddenly cold--and nodded to him gravely. Neither man spoke, but Vorkosigan looked relieved of a burden, and Illyan knew that, however it might complicate matters later on, he had been right to give Vorkosigan this wordless oath.

"The Emperor," Vorkosigan said at length, "will not--will not wholly dislike what I'm going to do." He closed his mouth tight, and Illyan wondered what words he was leaving unsaid.

A cry rang through the walls. Vorkosigan's hand fell to his plasma arc as a spasm of terrifying anger crossed his face. "Right," he said. "I want you to stay well back and try to witness everything. When I'm--afterwards--you can say what you please. Lie, threaten, whatever it takes to get a complete report of events back to Ezar."

Illyan frowned. If Vorkosigan was going to die--and the man seemed to have no illusions about that--it would be better for Illyan to die with him. Better than having to face Negri and the Emperor after joining in a mutiny. "There's the other observer for that, the surgeon. He's not involved at all."

"And he won't know the truth of what's been happening. They probably won't shoot you out of hand, not if I get this right. Vorhalas will look after you." He paused. "Do you happen to know where the Prince is?"

Illyan called up the last memory he had of the Prince. "I think he must have gone to his own cabin." He realised why Vorkosigan must be asking, and swallowed. One last try to find a better way. "Um--sir, perhaps I can do something on my own. It might be better than, er, risking you. If I go in there," he gestured to Vorrutyer's cabin, "and start at him, threaten him with Negri and the Emperor, maybe I can get the girl out, without, um, doing something irrevocable."

Vorkosigan shook his head. "No." His face softened for a moment. "Good of you to offer. But if you go in there alone you're more likely to be shot yourself, or just chucked out. Bothari won't hesitate to turn on you. I can deal with him. Besides," his fey expression returned, "I've had enough of this. It's time to end it."

He drew his plasma arc and strode towards the door. This was it. Illyan was condoning a mutiny against the supreme commander of the fleet. He was about to witness the murder of Admiral Vorrutyer and most likely Prince Serg as well. After that Vorkosigan's death was almost certain, and his own likely. He hoped the Betan woman, whoever she was, would appreciate it. But it was clear that there was more at work than one woman's torture, some larger picture that Illyan couldn't see. He must trust that Vorkosigan was right, place his career and his life on Vorkosigan's judgment. It was surprisingly easy.

They stopped outside Vorrutyer's door. Vorkosigan gestured for Illyan to stand back a pace. Illyan obeyed instantly, almost more frightened by the expression on Vorkosigan's face than by what they were about to do. He was dead white, but with anger, not fear, and his teeth were bared. No man going to confront the nightmare of his past could have looked more deadly. Then Vorkosigan steadied his plasma arc, drew a breath, and flung the door wide.


	11. Chapter 11

From where he stood, Illyan could not see in. He heard the woman give a cry of surprise, but Vorkosigan did not fire. Instead, in a broad Betan accent the woman said, "My God, you almost gave me heart failure. Come in, and close the door."

Vorkosigan stepped into the room and Illyan hurried after him, so tense he could barely breathe. He smelt blood. His eyes darted around the room and stopped mesmerized by the sight of Vorrutyer, his trousers round his ankles, sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. Already dead. The woman was as white as Vorkosigan, standing quite still near the body and staring at them. Blood was smeared on her hands. Sergeant Bothari was huddled on the floor in a corner, muttering to himself, also bloodsoaked. Injured?

"There's been an accident," the woman said. Illyan looked at her again sharply as his whirling mind provided a name and far more information for her face than he could process at once. With an effort he pulled out the salient facts. This was the Betan woman, Commander Cordelia Naismith, whom Vorkosigan had encountered on the newly-discovered planet, whom, if the reports were to be trusted, Vorkosigan had asked to be his wife. Complications multiplied exponentially in his mind like bacteria, and it was a moment before he could respond to Vorkosigan's request for him to close the door. He looked at Vorkosigan. His face was frozen, and even with several months of intensive practice Illyan could not discern his thoughts.

"You're going to have to witness this with the greatest attention," Vorkosigan said to him.

Illyan didn't need to be told this. It seemed that their death sentences were temporarily suspended. As he managed to process the rest of his data about Captain Naismith, some of his stunned amazement left him. This was the woman who had single-handedly, in an operation so risky and daring as to shock even an ImpSec officer, put down that mutiny by Radnov, without even loss of life. And now it seemed she had done Vorkosigan's work for him again. Illyan regarded her warily. Rescuing her seemed a little unnecessary. Fortunately, she didn't seem inclined to push her advantage. With Vorkosigan's obvious conflict of interest, Illyan had doubts about his ability to overpower her alone if she tried to continue her path of mayhem through the ship. Letting Vorkosigan murder superior officers was one thing, but letting a Betan do so would be harder to explain to the Emperor.

He forced his mind to turn to his duty of examining the evidence, pushing away the thousands of terrifying possibilities at Vorkosigan's order. Vorkosigan pointed with his plasma arc (fully charged, with the safety off and Vorkosigan's finger still running over the trigger) at the blood spatter patterns on the bed. Illyan made a little noise of alarmed protest and Vorkosigan mercifully holstered the weapon.

Then Illyan left Vorkosigan staring at the body and began to quarter and re-quarter the room methodically. When he had been in here before, he had preferred not to look at the little pieces of revolting artwork and the stranger parts of the décor. Now he gazed at the chains on the bedposts, scanned the titles of the books on the shelf, opened the cabinet full of drugs he had only heard about. The combination of the contents of the room, the smell of drying blood and the sudden release of mortal tension were making his stomach churn. He stared for a long time into a drawer of disturbing sex toys. Vorkosigan and Admiral Vorrutyer might have once used ... he cut that thought off forcibly. He was glad that evidence-gathering procedures had been drilled into him so deeply that they were instinctive, since he could barely grasp at coherent thought. All he knew was that he was flying blind now, careening towards unknown disasters. What would this mean for the invasion, for Vorkosigan's plans, for all of them?

Behind him, Vorkosigan was speaking quietly to Captain Naismith.

"The Emperor, for one, will be delighted. But strictly in private."

"In fact, I was tied up at the time. Sergeant Bothari, um, did the honours."

That fitted with the blood patterns. Illyan did not dare to rouse Bothari to examine the stains more closely, but there was no doubt that he was the more soaked. But--Bothari? How? Why? It was becoming increasingly clear to Illyan that he was out of his depth. The comment about the Emperor he flagged up on his chip for analysis later. There was too much to deal with all at once here for in-depth political considerations, and at any moment they could be interrupted. He called up the schedule for the rest of the day on his chip, but he didn't have enough data for Vorruyter's movements to know when this would be discovered.

"As soon as you're done, Illyan, I suggest we adjourn to my cabin for further discussion."

It was hard for Illyan to force himself to continue his examination once the prospect of escape opened up before him. He watched as Naismith approached Bothari without a hint of fear. Had she somehow suborned him? But how could anyone suborn a lunatic? She coaxed him up and he followed her, his hand in hers like a child. Illyan swallowed.

The dangerous moment in the corridor was quickly over and they were all installed in Vorkosigan's cabin. Illyan waited tensely through the brief explanations between Vorkosigan and his lady, one wary eye on the pacing, muttering Bothari, trying to hold on to his mask of calm. He shook Captain Naismith's hand politely when Vorkosigan introduced him, then wondered whether he should have saluted instead when he found congealing blood smeared on his hand. He wiped it on his handkerchief carefully and made a note to put it into the first waste incinerator he passed, lest he be found with incriminating evidence on him.

The presence of Naismith was clearly distracting Vorkosigan, his intent focus from earlier diverted into concern for her, but when Illyan asked what they should do, he discovered that Vorkosigan had been thinking in several directions at once. After a few more minutes of plans they went out to raise the alarm, leaving the two victim/killers alone in Vorkosigan's cabin.

The cabin door slid shut. Illyan paused at the lock, but there was no time for debates. Hopefully, Naismith would be able to keep Bothari under control until he could fetch a sedative. He followed Vorkosigan's swift march down the corridor. At the junction, he stopped dead as he realised that their plan was already doomed to disaster. The bugs. Vorrutyer's cabin was certainly monitored, and even though it was obvious that the security tech hadn't happened to be viewing that particular feed in real-time--since if he had they would all be under arrest already--as soon as they sounded the alarm it would be the first thing even the dimmest security officer would look at.

Vorkosigan jerked his head impatiently at him, but Illyan instead reached for the security console at the entrance to the staff officer's quarters. Vorkosigan gave him a frustrated stare, unable to speak because whilst the corridors were not visually monitored, they were bugged for sound. Illyan called up records, then paused for thought. This had to look like Naismith had done it, he couldn't just enter his ImpSec override codes. Illumination crossed Vorkosigan's face as he saw what Illyan was doing, and he gestured him to continue.

Within two minutes, Illyan had the database of bug recordings open to him. He wiped everything from the entire staff officers' corridor for the past hour, to be safe, and then put the previous hour's feeds onto a loop as a cheap cover-up to buy a bit more time. He hesitated for a moment over the rest of the data--there were so many false trails he could lay, so many things he could do--but they were out of time. He killed the power and stood up again. Vorkosigan gave him an approving nod and they hurried off again.

They came to the bridge, past the saluting guard, and went through the doorway. Illyan scanned the room. There was no sign that the news had gone ahead of them, no panic. Venne, Vorhalas and the Prince's ADC Lieutenant Lord Vormoncrief were conferring over a pile of flimsies, and the rest of the flagship's officers were at their posts, busy but relaxed. Only Venne looked up as they entered.

"Sound the alarm, amber alert," Vorkosigan said immediately, his voice carrying over the conversations amongst the officers. "Vorrutyer's been killed."

Vormoncrief jerked as if shot, and Vorhalas turned to stare at them. Venne reacted with combat-honed instincts, turning to his security officer, a Lieutenant Sindhi, who fumbled for his control panel. A moment later the klaxon began to wail.

"Killed?" Vorhalas demanded, starting up from his station chair. "How? What happened?"

Vorkosigan strode over to join them at the captain's console. "His throat was cut. Looks like one of his little games with a prisoner backfired on him."

Vorhalas flinched, and Venne's eyes went wide. "God," he muttered, "I did ask him to please leave our prisoners in the brig. More than once."

Illyan was faintly cheered by that. He'd always respected the flagship's XO, and it seems his instincts were right.

Vormoncrief said, "The Prince must be informed at once,"

"Yes. And get the ship on full security lockdown. And we'll need forensic and medical teams," Vorkosigan added. "Illyan, see to it."

Illyan jerked his head, understanding the opportunity Vorkosigan was feeding him to talk to Dr Lavalle. He sat down next to Lieutenant Sindhi. "Get a forensic team," he told Sindhi. "I'll contact sickbay."

Sindhi was already conferring with his guards. "You saw the scene—were there any signs of where the killer went?"

"I didn't have time to investigate," Illyan said. "Could be anywhere by now." He typed into the console, and a moment later Captain Dr Lavalle answered personally, due to the ImpSec code Illyan had embedded in the call.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he said in his mild voice.

"Please report to Commodore Vorkosigan with a full medical kit immediately," Illyan said, emphasising the word 'full' with a hard stare at Lavalle. "Admiral Vorrutyer has been murdered."

Lavalle nodded serenely. "I'm on it."

"Where is the Prince?" Vorkosigan was asking the ADC. "We'll need him here."

"You do not give orders to his Highness, Commodore," Vormoncrief said aloofly. Illyan's head went up, but Vorkosigan merely replied, "We'll go to him, then. He must be informed at once. He's in sole command now."

"The Prince is in his quarters, sir," said Sindhi after a quick check of his console.

"Fine. Have the forensic and medical teams meet us there, then, and we'll go straight on to Vorrutyer's cabin."

Leaving Sindhi and Venne co-ordinating the security lockdown, Admiral Vorhalas and the Prince's ADC followed Vorkosigan through the ship, escorted by two pairs of black-clad marines. Illyan displayed all the signs of alertness as well, as if he were expecting Betan saboteur-assassins to leap out from every corner.

Captain Lavalle and his medical team caught up with them at the end of the staff officers' corridor, right by the guard post where Illyan had sabotaged the surveillance system. He came up alongside Illyan.

"A pretty little mess, Lieutenant," he said quietly. "The Admiral murdered. And what exactly did you have to do with this?"

Illyan shot him an unamused glower. "Nothing." His voice dropped lower still. "I need a sedative. Strong." He suddenly thought of something else. All this effort for the one prisoner, but there was still the other girl, the one he had failed. He could rescue her too now. "And get to Sergeant Bothari's cabin, as soon as you can. There's a girl in there. She needs help."

Lavalle's eyes widened briefly, but he couldn't answer, since they had reached the Prince's door and Vorhalas and Vormoncrief were jockeying over knocking and going in. Vorkosigan watched sardonically, and the marines took up stations a little way off.

The Prince finally opened his door. "What do you want?" he grumbled, eyeing the assembled men in disfavour. "What's all this about?"

"Vorrutyer's been killed," Vorkosigan said bluntly, overriding the ADC's beginning apologies. "You're in sole command now."

Illyan, watching intently, nearly jumped when a small packet insinuated itself into his hand. "That'll stop a charging elephant," Lavalle murmured. "Care to tell me who your victim will be?"

Illyan shook his head and slipped the ampules into his pocket, his eyes still fixed on the Prince.

"Killed?" the Prince echoed. For a moment he looked very young and very shocked. Vormoncrief pushed forward.

"Yes, my lord," he said. "Commodore Vorkosigan found his body just now. He said he thought a prisoner might have done it."

"We're about to go and examine the scene," Admiral Vorhalas added. "We're just waiting on Sindhi and the forensic team—ah, here they come."

The Prince stumbled out into the corridor, his expression still dazed. "What prisoner?"

Vorkosigan opened his mouth to answer, and Illyan kicked his ankle stealthily. Vorkosigan blinked at him and pressed his lips together. The last thing they needed now was Vorkosigan drawing any extra attention to himself.

"Commander Venne will be investigating which prisoners are missing," Vorhalas said. "I think we should look at the scene first. The marines have secured the area." He opened Vorrutyer's door, and the Prince went in, followed by the forensic and medical teams, Vorhalas and Vorkosigan.

Illyan's gaze darted to Vorkosigan's door. He had no idea whether or how Captain Naismith was managing to keep Bothari under control in there. If Bothari made a disturbance, or indeed, decided to continue his throat-slitting on the only available victim, it would all be up. He lingered in the corridor as everyone trooped into Vorrutyer's cabin, then pressed his palm to Vorkosigan's door lock. He was relieved to see no fresh blood. Illyan handed the sedatives to Captain Naismith (providing a valuable weapon to an enemy soldier at large on a Barrayaran ship, said Negri's voice in his head) and darted out again.

The commando guards were staring into Vorrutyer's cabin along with everyone else, Illyan noted. He moved silently to join them, then entered the cabin. The reason for everyone's staring was immediately obvious. The Prince had flung himself on top of Vorrutyer's body and was holding it, muttering incoherently. Illyan edged closer to Vorkosigan, who was stony-faced. Vorhalas looked frustrated.

After a moment, Vorkosigan stepped forward and stooped over the Prince, not quite daring to touch him. "You're contaminating the evidence," he said. "Get up and let the forensic team do their work."

Sindhi shot him a glance of thanks. The Prince lingered a moment longer, then stumbled back. Drying blood streaked his chest. He turned on Vorkosigan with a wild look in his eyes.

"I would have thought you could at least pretend to care. You had him first, after all. He never got over the way you treated him."

All the forensic, medical and security men developed extremely wooden expressions. Illyan tensed, but Vorkosigan simply turned away. Vorhalas waved the forensic team forward, and with wary sidelong glances at the Prince they began to examine the area around Vorrutyer's body.

The Prince glared at the forensic officers. "We don't need any of this. It's obvious who killed him."

Sindhi's head went up alertly, as did Lavalle's. Illyan rather thought he knew what was coming.

"You're the one who wanted him dead."

Vorkosigan went rigid. Illyan shifted his balance slightly, ready to move if he needed to. Ready to act. Though how he could help here, he had no idea. But it was his duty to defend Vorkosigan now.

"Absurd," Vorkosigan ground out through set teeth.

Illyan began to race through the evidence they'd left behind them. Vorkosigan might not be guilty of the murder—though Illyan knew full well that it was only because Vorrutyer had already been dead when they got there—but he was shielding the true killer, not to mention an escaped POW. If there was some subtle detail Illyan hadn't thought of, something that would betray them, he needed to think of it now.

"You hated Ges, you always did," the Prince went on, his voice rising. "I saw the way you looked at him. And we're just supposed to take your word for it that you happened to wander into his cabin and find his body? Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Everyone was staring at Vorkosigan now. Sindhi frowned in thought. "But in that case, sir, the prisoner—" he began, and Illyan knew what his question would be. Sindhi was a good security officer, evidently, and his mind worked in the same way that Illyan's did. But not quite as quickly.

"You mean, sir, Commodore Vorkosigan's word supported by my testimony," he said in a clear voice.

The Prince turned his flushed face to Illyan. "You?" he said in scathing tones. "Vorkosigan's lapdog? And cocksucker, I've no doubt? Why should I believe a word you say?"

Vorkosigan had turned to stare at Illyan, along with everyone else in the room. But at least their attention was diverted from Sindhi's uncomfortably astute question. Illyan decided to make sure of it. It was impossible for him to get into more trouble than he was already in, no matter what he said to the Prince.

"I serve your father," Illyan retorted. "He will receive my report."

The Prince took a step towards him, eyes burning. "That—" he struck Illyan hard across the face "—for my father."

Illyan's head snapped back. Lavalle, watching up till now with detached interest, put out a hand to steady him. Vorkosigan moved towards the Prince, who recoiled from what he saw on Vorkosigan's face.

"You always did prefer to hit people who wouldn't hit back," he growled. "Control yourself."

Illyan realised then just how seriously Vorkosigan took that unvoiced heart-oath made barely half an hour ago. A liegeman was owed a duty of protection from his lord. He cast Vorkosigan a warning glance. _Back off, I'm all right._ But Vorkosigan's anger pushed the Prince over the edge.

"Security," he shrieked, "arrest Commodore Vorkosigan and take him to the brig."

Vorkosigan stood like a stone. It was noticeable, Illyan thought, that the burly marines looked to Lieutenant Sindhi for confirmation of the Prince's orders, in clear violation of regs. Sindhi stared equally pleadingly at Admiral Vorhalas.

Vorhalas, silent up till now, intervened. "Think what you're saying, sir," he said. "You are understandably ... upset by this tragedy. But the forensic team have barely started to gather the evidence, much less consider it. And—without Admiral Vorrutyer, Aral will be needed for the invasion."

"We don't need a traitor and mutineer marshalling Barrayaran troops," the Prince retorted—a remarkably cogent argument, Illyan thought. "He is to be imprisoned for the duration of this expedition, and when we return to Barrayar he will go back for that treason trial he weaselled out of before we left." He glowered at the marines. "Take him to the brig."

Two marines approached Vorkosigan, looking like men asked to destroy their god. Illyan matched one as a Komarr veteran. With a wry grimace, Vorkosigan held his arms stiffly away from his side and permitted them to remove his sidearms.

"I must protest, sir," Vorhalas said. "For all we know, there was some kind of breakout from the brig mixed up in this. And for a Vor lord and Staff officer…"

"Confined to quarters, then," the Prince spat. "Now take him away."

Illyan, who had been fading into the background during this scene, was relieved not to be included in Vorkosigan's arrest orders. The two marines took Vorkosigan by the arms and turned him around. Illyan had arrested grandmothers with more severity. He preceded Vorkosigan out the door of Vorrutyer's cabin. Now all he had to do was prevent them from entering the cabin… or prevent Vorkosigan doing anything stupid if they did discover Captain Naismith and Bothari. He rehearsed four plausible explanations for their presence in his mind.

But it all went like clockwork. The guards halted either side of the door, Illyan pressed his palm to the lock and stood so that his body prevented the guards from seeing in. Vorkosigan entered, Illyan followed, and it was done.


	12. Chapter 12

A few minutes later Illyan emerged from the cabin, Vorkosigan's rapid-fire instructions looping through his head. _Mention Negri frequently. Suggest. Recommend. Doubt. Better not bribe or threaten, that's too obvious, although it may come to that. Slander their inspection procedures, make records evaporate—whatever is necessary..._ God. But his hands were between Vorkosigan's now, and he would follow Vorkosigan's orders and give him his forty-eight hours.

A voice in the back of his head was still screaming in panic that this was a disaster and they were going to be caught and killed and if he'd just obeyed Negri's orders in the first place everything would have been fine. If only that were true. Illyan walled that whole sequence of thought off in his mind, aware that the face he presented to the guards must be only naturally startled at what had just happened, not desperate and confused.

"Does he need anything, sir?" one of the guards asked him. Illyan was going to shake his head and pass by, but an idea struck him and instead he paused.

"No, he'll be fine. I'm sure he'll ask you if there's anything he wants."

"It's not like we'll be here long," the other guard said confidently. "As if he'd do anything like that." He looked at Illyan. "I mean, you were with him, weren't you, sir?"

"I was."

"There you are, then It's—" his voice lowered "—idiotic to lock him up just before things get interesting."

Illyan did not say anything, giving the guard time to worry about criticising his superiors before an ImpSec officer. Then he said, "I'm still required to watch him, so if anyone comes here to see him, you must call me before admitting them, no matter who it is."

"Yessir."

Illyan went on down the corridor, confident that the guards respected his authority and were favourably disposed towards their captive, and that he would have a chance to intervene if anyone tried to visit. Negri's voice echoed again in his mind, very faintly: Vorkosigan is not your commanding officer. He ignored it. Everything had changed now.

He was about to climb through the hatch away from the staff officers' corridor when voices behind him made him turn. The doors of two of the other cabins on the corridor had opened and two search teams emerged, under the direction of a young ensign. Illyan swallowed and turned back. Another second and he'd have missed them.

He recognised the ensign as Beauregard, evidently back on duty on the flagship. Perfect, a rare stroke of luck. But luck was only meaningful if you exploited it. He went over to join them.

Beauregard looked up from his report panel as Illyan appeared.

"Find anything?"

Beauregard hesitated, then said, "Not so far, sir." He turned back to his search teams and sent one into the cabin immediately beside Vorkosigan's, then stared at Vorkosigan's guarded door. "Need I search in there, do you think? The orders say every cabin, but they also say top speed."

"I went over the cabin just now, that's why I was in there so long. You can report it searched and clear."

"Oh. Good." Beauregard directed his second team into the cabin on the other side of Vorkosigan's. "Only there aren't any bug readings from in there, so I was worried…"

"No, that's right," Illyan answered instantly. "I get them directly, since monitoring Commodore Vorkosigan is my responsibility."

"Yes, yes, of course." Beauregard looked at Illyan's insignia with a hint of nervousness. "That's fine." His conscientiousness won out over his nerves enough to ask, "Then you can confirm there's nothing suspicious on the bug readouts?"

"Certainly. All clean." Illyan had always done well at telling outright lies with a perfect face. He watched as Beauregard jabbed at his report panel with a stylus.

"There's also your own cabin," Beauregard said, with stubborn persistence. "No bug readings and my override didn't get me past your palm-lock."

Illyan grimaced. "That was to keep Prince Serg's men out," he said, with a slightly conspiratorial look at Beauregard. "I'm sure you know why."

"Oh. Yes. I see, sir."

"I'll go over it myself and report back to you. Though if you couldn't get in I rather doubt anyone else could either."

Beauregard nodded and gave him a tentative smile at that, which Illyan returned cheerfully. He lingered a moment for certainty, and saw the search teams proceed on down the corridor. He felt like he was disarming grenades, and each time he made one safe, another was hurtled at him. What chance did Vorkosigan and his rescuees have?

Well, if they were to have any chance at all, he had to keep going. His blood was up now. A good spy had to have patience, for the watching and waiting that was an essential part of the job, but he also had to be quick when watching turned to action. Now Illyan had a shipful of men to con with his life and others' hanging in the balance. He bared his teeth in a quick flash of a grin as the adrenalin rush began to take over. This would be the most fun he'd had in months.

He hurried down to the bridge and strode in with his head at an arrogant angle. Commander Venne was attempting to keep control over the chaos that was sprouting amongst his officers as each man tried to demonstrate that he was doing his best to solve the mystery of their Admiral's assassination. Illyan stalked silent-footed up to the junior security officer's station and gazed over his shoulder with the air of an examiner considering a failing student's work. The JSO, Trent, was a man of his own rank, a little young for his position and uneasy around the ImpSec agent. Perfect.

"Why isn't anyone investigating the two shuttles that left from B Lock?" he demanded suddenly.

Trent jumped and spun in his station chair. "Shuttles?" he echoed, then stared at Illyan. "Er—what are you doing here, ah, sir?"

The final 'sir' had clearly been a judicious afterthought, and it pleased Illyan, all the more since they were nominally of equal rank. "Since there is no need for me to watch Commodore Vorkosigan whilst he's under guard, I am here to see how your investigation is going. I have some experience of such things, and I will need to provide a report on this along with the other information for Captain Negri."

"I see." Trent hesitated, then said, "You've done murder investigations before? We've never had one on this ship until now, just the usual little things that the military police deal with."

"Many times," Illyan assured him, untruthfully. He'd had the training, at least. Then he added, "But I don't want to interfere. What about Political Officer Dewitt?"

It was apparent that Trent had never had any training in subterfuge. He looked as if someone had put salt in his coffee bulb. "I--I'm sure your experience is more relevant, sir. Of course," he added hastily, and loudly, "the PO must do what he thinks best, but--do you want to have a look at the reports I've got so far?"

"Thank you." Illyan glanced at them, said, "Hmm," a few times for effect, and then after a time far too short for most people to have read the documents, said, "But you haven't got anything about the shuttles. If the hypothesis that the escaped prisoner killed him is true, she would be a fool not to make all haste to escape from the ship. After all, it's not possible to hide for long even on this class of ship."

"Yes, yes, I know. But how could she have gotten from the Admiral's cabin to the B locks? It's down three decks and across almost the whole ship, surely someone would have spotted her."

"Perhaps someone did," Illyan said grimly. "Is anyone else missing? Hasn't there been a complete roll-call of everyone aboard yet? I don't think we should assume that the Admiral was her only victim."

Trent scribbled some notes on his pad, and Illyan stood silently by. Commander Venne spotted their work and came over.

"Lieutenant Illyan? May I ask what you're doing here?"

Trent replied, "He's offered to help with the investigation, sir. He has, er, a lot of experience."

Illyan felt his stomach curl as Venne considered him thoughtfully for a moment. Venne was no fool, and he knew Illyan was not entirely impartial when it came to Vorkosigan. But then, neither was Venne himself. Illyan summoned Negri's shade to his back and said quietly, "I am required to keep aware of everything related to Commodore Vorkosigan's political activities. Whatever the outcome of this investigation, I must follow it closely." On Barrayar, he thought, assassination counted as a political activity.

"I see." Venne nodded. "Very well. You may consider yourself part of the investigative team, Lieutenant."

The two shuttles from B Lock were, as Illyan had hoped, a fruitful distraction. The fact that one had a malfunction of its tight-beam communication was even better than he had expected. All the suspicion in the room was instantly diverted. He did not relax, but sorted through data in his head, looking for more sources of distraction and confusion, and praying that nobody traced all the confusion back to him.

The night-cycle had passed and Illyan's smokescreen of diversions, lies and intimidation was still holding when he finally excused himself from the bridge. If he didn't show up soon with a meal for Vorkosigan, he feared the over-solicitous guards would start to offer help of their own. In the mess, he snagged two large portions of whatever they were offering for breakfast, one ostensibly for himself, and also palmed a ration bar into his pocket. Feeding two extra people wasn't going to be easy, and whilst he might stint himself for Vorkosigan, he wasn't about to go hungry for the sake of Sergeant Bothari.

He nodded to the guards and slid open the door of Vorkosigan's cabin, opening it as little as he could. Vorkosigan jumped and whirled as he entered, his hand reaching towards his empty holster, then relaxed.

"Oh. It's you."

"I brought your breakfast; thought I'd have mine here too," Illyan answered for the guards' benefit, and closed the door again.

Captain Naismith was asleep on the bunk, and Bothari lay in a corner, his eyes half-open but clearly unaware of anything that was happening. Illyan set the meals on the comconsole desk and perched on a corner wearily.

"It's holding so far," he reported. "They're busily trying to lock down every shuttle, skiff and repair tender that's passed through local space in the past day, which totals fifty-seven very busy vehicles, most of which seem to have made numerous unscheduled side-trips to do minor repairs or transport duty that hasn't got proper paperwork attached to it. There's going to be a console failure later today, whilst I'm on my sleep-cycle, which will destroy some important records, and someone's got to redo all the fast-penta interrogations of the other prisoners in the brig because they didn't follow procedure exactly."

Vorkosigan's tired face cracked a grin. "Excellent work."

The brief praise was almost as good as a full night's sleep. Illyan held his head up. He'd seen Vorkosigan at work as a leader of men before; now he was experiencing it. Knowing how the trick was worked, it seemed, didn't make him immune to it.

"It's not going to hold forever," he continued after a moment. "Sooner or later someone else will come in here and there will be nothing I can do about it. And once they realise what I've done, I won't be able to shelter you any longer."

"That doesn't matter." Vorkosigan glanced at the woman on the bed, then quickly away. "It doesn't matter. At least, it doesn't matter what happens to me, so long as you get back to Negri with a complete report. If they catch this, lie. Tell them I threatened you, I bribed you, I seduced you, whatever you like, just make sure it lands all the blame on me. The top priority is to preserve the true report for the Emperor." He paused. "If you can protect—" he looked at Captain Naismith again. Illyan nodded helplessly. He'd far rather protect Vorkosigan than this unknown lady soldier, but he was Vorkosigan's man now and would obey.

*

Illyan's work held, and the frenzy of the preparations for the planetary invasion fleet began to take priority in everyone's minds even above the question of how their admiral had died. But the Prince was still suspicious, and he dragged everyone together to hear a complete report of how their investigation had gone.

Serg looked as if he'd rather space Illyan than have to breathe the same air as his father's ImpSec agent. He did not look at Illyan as he spoke. "I want to hear his account of what happened. See if it corresponds to the evidence we have now."

Since every piece of pertinent evidence had passed through Illyan's hands, he was not particularly worried about this. Commander Venne's eyes widened slightly in the same realisation. Illyan tensed, preparing obfuscations as Venne opened his mouth, but then he closed it again and made a little carry-on gesture towards Illyan.

Illyan leaned back in his chair, a position of calm confidence, and said, "Certainly, sir. Where shall I begin?"

"I last saw Ges alive at the meeting when you got back from the Tau Cetan front. Start there."

"Very well." Illyan knew nobody present here had ever heard him making a full recall of anything, and so would be unable to recognise, as Ezar instantly would, that he was not actually replaying his chip. He described escorting Vorkosigan back to his cabin and leaving him there. The Prince leapt on this at once.

"He could have killed Ges then! You weren't there, how would you know?"

"He had the opportunity in theory," Illyan agreed, "but several witnesses saw Admiral Vorrutyer inspecting prisoners in the brig during this time. Later witnesses report bringing a female prisoner to his cabin; Commander Venne has the details."

Corporal Angelov had courageously described exactly how revolting the setup was. Admiral Vorhalas looked very grim as Venne repeated the story. Serg merely seemed bored.

"Very well, he was alive then. But there was still time for Vorkosigan to get there and kill him before you went back to him, wasn't there?"

"Possibly. But Commodore Vorkosigan's appearance makes this unlikely. The forensic report shows that it would not have been possible for Admiral Vorrutyer's killer to have avoided being soaked in his blood; his throat was cut from behind using the knife you've already seen. When I went to Commodore Vorkosigan's cabin he was wearing the same uniform he had earlier, and the rest of his kit had not yet been returned from the courier from the Tau Cetan front. His cabin has also been searched; no sign of any bloodstained clothing has been found." He did not add that his evidence alone gave details of this imaginary search.

Serg grunted. Illyan took this as permission to continue.

"Whilst I was in the mess, Corporal Angelov approached me with his concerns about Admiral Vorrutyer and the prisoner. He did not think the situation was very safe—" Illyan did not say for whom "—and he asked me if I would mention it to Commodore Vorkosigan. I went to Commodore Vorkosigan's cabin at once and repeated what Corporal Angelov had asked me to say, and Commodore Vorkosigan decided it would be wise to investigate."

"He had no business getting involved," Serg muttered. "Investigate, my ass! He wanted to interfere."

Illyan saw Vorhalas flinch. He continued blandly, "We went into Admiral Vorrutyer's cabin—the door was not secured—and found the scene which your forensic team has described. Their deductions you have already."

Serg glowered around the room, and focused his most furious frown at Illyan, who sat at bland attention. Venne also frowned at him, thoughtfully.

"It seems, sir, there's no reason to continue keeping Commodore Vorkosigan under guard," Vorhalas said. "He could not have killed the Admiral, it's impossible. And the rest of the Staff are already having to work flat out; if we had Aral it would make things that bit easier."

"Hardly," snorted the Prince. "He's more trouble than he's worth, always arguing and wanting to slow everything down. Besides, I'm not convinced we can trust Vorkosigan's lapdog to tell us the whole truth."

Illyan kept his face from showing surprise at this first sign of common sense from the Prince.

"I want him kept under arrest until we get back to Barrayar. Then we'll have some real experts in to figure out what happened." Grishnov and his men, Illyan thought, who would have no objection to manufacturing evidence wholesale to condemn Vorkosigan. And would Negri even back his errant subordinate against Grishnov, now? Well, that was a problem for another day.

Vorhalas sighed. "Yes, sir," he said. It was the only thing he could say, Illyan supposed. "But I'd like to speak with him myself, before we go, and make sure he has all the data. He can keep up with the analysis, at least, whilst he's under arrest."

Serg glared. "If you must. But I'll come with you. I'm not having you talking behind my back."

Illyan was dizzied with sudden panic as they both stood up. He thought he had won, but this would be the end. They would go to the cabin, they would find Naismith and Bothari, and then nothing would be able to save Vorkosigan.

His throat was so dry it took him two tries to speak. "I'll just go ahead of you, then, sir. I believe he may be asleep."

"Yes, get your master out of bed. Lying around whilst we do all the work…" Serg waved a hand at him. Illyan strode away, not breaking into a run until he was beyond their sight.

He controlled himself as he came to the guarded door of Vorkosigan's cabin. What on earth could be done to conceal the two fugitives? It was possible Vorhalas might stay quiet if he noticed something odd, given his friendship with Vorkosigan, but the Prince certainly would not, might even be looking for evidence. Illyan could hear his heart beating in his ears as he opened the door. Vorkosigan was sitting at his comconsole, Naismith lay dozing on the bed, and Bothari was sprawled on the floor. Vorkosigan took one look at his tense face and sprang up.

"Vorhalas and the Prince! Here! Now!"

The next few minutes were a flurry of desperate activity, as they gave Bothari another dose of sedative and hid him in the bathroom with Naismith. At least both Vorkosigan and Naismith had the combat experience to react instantly and intelligently to a threat. Illyan stood guard at the bathroom door, aware that danger could come at him from either side if Naismith or Bothari did something unwise. He watched Vorkosigan ready himself and marvelled at how calm he looked. Once the fugitives were safely out of sight, Vorkosigan gave him a quick glance.

"Don't step on my lines," he said quietly. "Just stand there, like you always do. I might have to say something... let me speak freely, Simon."

Illyan blinked. Vorkosigan's voice was serious and intent. He must have a plan. "All right," he said slowly. He was still trying to think through the implications of this when Admiral Vorhalas entered, followed by the Prince, evidently still arguing over what to do with Vorkosigan.

Vorhalas smiled at Vorkosigan, his usual cheer a little dented by the presence of the Prince glowering behind him. Illyan folded his arms and leaned back against the doorway, calling up past memories from his chip so that he could precisely imitate the detached stance he had perfected at the start of this campaign, before everything had been turned on its head.

Vorkosigan's plan seemed to involve him venting several months' pent-up criticism of the Prince's military techniques and strategies. Vorhalas, Illyan saw, looked as alarmed by this as he was, but there was something about Vorkosigan's tone of voice that kept Illyan from so much as twitching. Instead he listened, trying to understand. When Vorkosigan had been furious before, he'd whispered; now his voice was raised.

Then he heard a snort from the bathroom over the Prince's furious retort. Illyan choked, then turned his choke to a cough as the snoring continued. Abandoning Vorkosigan--who was just warming up his insults--in desperation, Illyan coughed violently and ducked into the bathroom, then closed the door. Bothari was snoring. Captain Naismith was trying to turn him over, but couldn't move his bulk in the confined space on her own. Her hands, he saw, were shaking. Between them they got Bothari turned onto his side, tilting his head back a little, and the snoring stopped.

Illyan dashed back, but whatever else Vorkosigan had said to the Prince, it had evidently been enough to drive him straight out of the cabin. Negri was going to be furious with him for missing that conversation, Illyan knew.

Vorhalas was still there, having a much calmer chat with Vorkosigan. From it, Illyan deduced that whatever Vorkosigan had said, it hadn't been enough to dissuade the Prince from leaving with the ground forces. Though, given the Prince's habit of doing precisely the opposite of what Vorkosigan wanted, perhaps that had been his goal. Getting the Prince off the flagship would make coping with their two fugitives much easier.

Vorhalas shook hands with Vorkosigan and began to make his way out. Illyan saw Vorkosigan's hand move to clap Vorhalas on the shoulder, a gesture, he thought, as much of benediction as friendship.

Then Vorhalas was gone. The door slid shut, and Illyan felt like collapsing onto the floor in a heap. They'd survived.

"Time to liberate Bothari," Vorkosigan said. "You did well there, Simon. Thanks."

Illyan straightened up, and went to get Bothari's feet as Vorkosigan went to his head. They'd just carried him out of the bathroom when Vorkosigan suddenly said, "Shit! He's stopped breathing."

The extra dose of sedative, Illyan realised. Vorkosigan, realising the same thing, immediately ordered him to get an antidote. There was no time for argument, though Illyan didn't even know if there was an antidote. A moment later he was racing through the ship's corridors, seconds ticking in his head. Even with Vorkosigan and Naismith's resuscitation attempts, if he took too long over this their time would run out. Irreversible brain damage.

He had to slow down, despite his urgent terror, whenever he came near any junctions or busier areas. The Commodore's watchdog tearing through the ship would spark the wildest curiosity from all quarters, and the Prince wasn't gone yet.

Eighty-seven seconds had passed by the time he reached sickbay. A medtech looked up in surprise at his entrance, and Illyan made a little don't-mind-me gesture to him. The Horus eyes on his collar did the rest, and the tech quickly turned back to servicing his equipment. Illyan went towards Lavalle's office, striding rapidly across the sickbay floor, and found him sitting over his console.

"Lieutenant? What--" Lavalle began.

"That stuff you gave me. That would stop a charging elephant. If there's an antidote, I need it, now."

Lavalle stared at him. "What on earth have you done?" he asked. "Do you want me to come?" He was getting up as he spoke, responding to the way Illyan was jittering from foot to foot in impatience.

"Just give it to me," Illyan said. "Right now." He couldn't have Lavalle in Vorkosigan's quarters, not with Bothari and Naismith there, he had no idea which way Lavalle would jump.

"If you would just read the directions on the packet..." Lavalle muttered under his breath as he unlocked a drugs cabinet, pulled out a packet of ampules and double-checked them. "If someone's overdosed on that sedative, use one of these--only one, no matter what--applied to the carotid artery."

Illyan snatched the ampules. "Thank you," he said, turned around and dashed out again before Lavalle could ask anything more.

As he reversed his steps through the ship, he found himself wondering morbidly if Vorkosigan would be fighting so desperately to save him if his and Bothari's roles had been reversed. Probably, in all likelihood. Vorkosigan was loyal to his people beyond any reason or sense. As he climbed up an access shaft in one smooth pull, Illyan felt that Vorkosigan's senseless loyalty must be catching, because nothing else could explain the situation he had got himself into.

He reached the cabin to find Vorkosigan and Naismith still at work with rescue breathing and chest compressions, faces pale and sweat-streaked. He shoved the door closed, grabbed one of the ampules and pressed it to Bothari's neck. It hissed under his fingers. Illyan watched, but nothing happened, and Naismith went on breathing into Bothari's mouth. Illyan was about to offer to take over for one of them when Bothari suddenly jerked, shuddered and began to breathe on his own.

Illyan realised he hadn't breathed for a while either, watching. He inhaled, and watched as Bothari's breathing steadied. Then Vorkosigan leapt for his console and began to type frantically. Illyan forced himself to follow, wondering how Vorkosigan was managing to be coherent enough to write. He read over Vorkosigan's shoulder. It was a very strongly worded protest of the Prince accompanying Admiral Vorhalas with the planetary invasion forces. Illyan raised his eyebrows at some of the language, but didn't argue. Whatever game Vorkosigan was playing now--and Illyan wasn't sure whether he was grateful or not that Vorkosigan was holding his cards so close to his chest, though he supposed with Naismith in here Vorkosigan could hardly start confiding military secrets in him--it would be best to let him play it alone.

"Do I pass the censor?" Vorkosigan asked drily as he attached his signature to the protest.

Illyan grimaced. "Send it," he said.

With that done, Vorkosigan went back to Bothari, who was breathing steadily now. "Is there anything else we should be doing?" he asked Illyan.

"Unless you'd like to invite Dr Lavalle in here--which I really do not recommend--I don't think there's anything else we can do."

Vorkosigan looked away. "He's alive. It's enough."

Considering that a part of Illyan's awareness had never left the door, and that he was constantly running scenarios for how he might save Vorkosigan, possibly from himself, if they were all discovered, he thought it was more than enough. He said as much to Vorkosigan, but after sending his protest, Vorkosigan seemed entirely uninterested in what might happen to them here, his entire attention focused on the planetary invasion.

After a few more minutes in which no further disasters erupted, Illyan went to get a meal for them all. It wasn't until he was halfway to the mess that he managed to collect his thoughts sufficiently even to work out which meal it should be.

*

As Vorkosigan had argued, things did improve after the main body of the invasion force left. Commander Venne still watched Illyan suspiciously, like a man in the audience of a magic show trying to understand how the trick was done, but he let it be known that he thought the assassin had escaped and called the search off. Illyan had barely had to push at all for this; he was starting to feel redundant. Not to mention tired and hungry.

But there were still two fugitives in Vorkosigan's cabin, and there was still the constant risk of discovery. Illyan had enumerated all the possible ways this could implode; he had listed twenty-three disasters including an emergency drill, a real emergency aboard the ship, Bothari becoming out of control and that Naismith was somehow playing them all and had some sabotage or escape planned. She seemed tense whenever Illyan saw her, but then Illyan was tense too, and Vorkosigan was tenser than either of them.

It was Vorkosigan's behaviour that unsettled Illyan. He was tracking the progress of the planetary invasion fleet obsessively, far more so than he had any of the previous space battles. Illyan would bring a meal and leave it beside the comconsole, and when he returned at the next mealtime Vorkosigan would still be sitting at the comconsole, staring at it as if he expected it to burst into flames.

When he came again to find Vorkosigan in full dress uniform, still at his station, Illyan decided to stay a while, regardless of what the guards outside thought. Something was going to happen. The ground troops were landing, and Vorkosigan, it seemed, was expecting disaster. Why now, Illyan thought, when they'd come so far with so much success? But the Prince was in charge down there. Perhaps Vorkosigan was waiting for him to make a fatal misstep, without Admiral Vorrutyer's sounder tactical vision to keep the plan on track.

He waited. Captain Naismith too was watching the reports expectantly, though Illyan supposed her reasons for being concerned were precisely the opposite of Vorkosigan's. Their tension, though, was identical.

"Half a league onwards," Vorkosigan muttered, staring at the display like a man watching a road accident, horrified but unable to pull away. Gazing over his shoulder, Illyan saw the Escobaran defence preparing, but nothing to suggest that the Barrayaran ground troops were going into the valley of death.

Then Commander Venne called through with an extra update. Illyan moved to Vorkosigan's elbow to watch. Every transmission Vorkosigan selected was worse than the one before. The Escobaran defence was unpredictable, incomprehensible, with overwhelming firepower coming from ships that simply couldn't contain the weapons they were using. Transmissions cut out abruptly, the reason hideously apparent. Vorkosigan seemed close to despair as he looked at the overall display, and Illyan found himself growing sick and frightened, as much by Vorkosigan's obvious pain as at the military disaster they could see on the screen. Surely there was something that could be done? Admiral Vorhalas would pull it off. But one of the transmissions that had ended so disturbingly had been from the flagship itself.

Illyan felt cold, beginning to understand what he was seeing. Their invasion would not be able to land. Ship after ship vanished from the display, each one bearing hundreds of Barrayaran soldiers. It was almost relief when the screen split again and Venne's face appeared. He confirmed Illyan's growing suspicion: the Prince and Admiral Vorhalas had been killed.

"You're in command now, sir," Venne said shakily to Vorkosigan.

Illyan turned to Vorkosigan and watched, hoping against hope that Vorkosigan would have some trick up his sleeve, some way to make this disaster into a victory. Vorkosigan could do it, Illyan was sure. But instead, he heard Vorkosigan order a full retreat in a leaden voice. His explanation about the new plasma mirror field baffled Illyan, but in front of Captain Naismith he could do nothing but congratulate Vorkosigan inanely and bear up under Vorkosigan's withering look.

They left the cabin and made for the tac room. Vorkosigan said nothing as they walked, and Illyan simply watched him. With each step, Vorkosigan seemed to change, the overwound tension finally breaking forth in action, swift and efficient. Illyan was almost jogging to keep up by the time they arrived.

In the tac room, Vorkosigan was transfigured, his full command presence let loose at last. The officers there all looked stunned and horrified by the disasters they'd just witnessed. Commodore Couer was ashen. Vorkosigan strode in and looked around.

"We're going to get our boys home," he told the room. "Couer, Venne--" he jerked his head, and they both came to flank him at the commanding officer's console. Illyan took a seat to one side, and Vorkosigan began to go through his orders. As Illyan watched, the fear in the tac room began to change to activity and purpose.

He sat back as a realisation swept over him. His work was over. Vorrutyer and the Prince were both dead. There was nothing further he had to do to keep Vorkosigan from compromising himself. He had not dared to let himself think this could be a possibility, even when Serg went to the front. But now the Prince was no threat to Vorkosigan, could not destroy Illyan's career, and there would be no more assassination attempts from him on the Emperor. His job was going to be much, much easier now. Even the terrible military problem Vorkosigan faced seemed to shrink.

Underneath his relief, something was clamouring for attention. Illyan reluctantly allowed his attention to be drawn. Isn't it odd, said the small part of his head that was charged with such niggling doubts, isn't it odd that Vorkosigan didn't say anything, even to him, about the intelligence about the plasma mirror shields until he was in command? Admittedly it would have been hard to explain without revealing Naismith's presence, but Illyan could have found a way to get the word out for something as big as that. There had been time to pull the troop ships back, rethink their plans, find a way to cope with the new weapon system.

And where had Vorkosigan been keeping those interrogation drugs, anyway? Illyan had searched every cubic centimetre of that cabin almost every day, looking for bugs. He knew its contents as certainly as the contents of his own cabin. More certainly. And one thing he knew was that there were no secret caches of drugs anywhere. There were only a few rare interrogation drugs that would work on a subject in her sleep and leave no trace, and Illyan wasn't even sure they had any in the flagship's laboratories.

So how had Vorkosigan found out? Had Captain Naismith told him willingly, perhaps to speed the retreat, and Vorkosigan made up the story to shield her honour? But if that were so she must be a remarkably good actress. Illyan was starting to regret letting Vorkosigan spend unguarded time with his … prisoner, and wished he had insisted on following the letter of his orders. And what if Naismith hadn't been the source of the intelligence? How had Vorkosigan found out? And when?

There was probably some obvious explanation, Illyan thought, but it worried him all the same. He stared around the tac room. The ship was moving at full power now, possibly into the emergency extra boost, and he could feel the vibrations from the strained engines. Vorkosigan was tight-beaming orders out to the planetary assault group. Illyan attended consciously to what was being said.

"… and these are the formations and positions." Vorkosigan scrolled through screens of diagrams and numbers. "Make sure they stick to them, it's the only chance they'll have of covering the retreat against those damned plasma mirrors." A big overall plan showed briefly on the vid display. Illyan stared at it, holding the image on his chip as Vorkosigan moved on. The chip was insistently pushing a matching schematic to the forefront of his mind. He attended to the memory. He had seen that diagram for the retreating ships before, over a month ago when he had happened to glance at Vorkosigan's private contingency planning.

Cold realisation stopped his breath. A month ago, Vorkosigan had been designing retreat plans around the plasma mirrors. A month ago, Vorkosigan had known of this new Escobaran weapon. But he had told nobody, until an accident put him in command of the fleet.

There was only one name for such behaviour, only one reason Vorkosigan had sent thousands of men off unprotected whilst keeping secret the knowledge that might have saved them. Instinctively, automatically, his hand moved to his nerve disruptor.


	13. Chapter 13

Illyan thrashed through it all again in his mind, trying to understand. Vorkosigan had been with Naismith and her fellow Betans only a few months ago, had obviously been strongly drawn to her. He must have learned of the plasma mirrors then, but he had kept it secret even whilst his men died for lack of the knowledge. Why? To avoid dishonouring Naismith, or perhaps to fulfil his own predictions, to make the invasion fail the way he'd said it would? It went against everything Illyan had thought he'd known of Vorkosigan, every measure of his character, of his loyalty, of his honour, but again and again Illyan saw the two matching plans in his mind's eye. That was a fact, attested by his chip, and if he started denying what his chip recorded, he would go under. He knew Vorkosigan had stood by and let this invasion fail. Vorkosigan's motivation was less important than the known facts.

He couldn't accept it, didn't want to accept it, no matter how strongly logic and his memory pushed him. There must be some other explanation. But he could think of none. And if Vorkosigan was a traitor, then he had a duty to fulfil.

His hand hovered over the weapons at his hip. The stunner, the nerve disruptor. He looked around the tactics room. Arresting the commanding officer in the middle of a battle was not an unprecedented act in Barrayaran history, but it was also not an easy one. The other officers would be sure to object at the very least, resist perhaps. And that would only be the start of his problems. They would want explanations, and the story of the fugitives hiding in Vorkosigan's cabin would come out and would bring furious counter-accusations of fraud and treason against him. He wouldn't be able to maintain his authority. And then there was the worst problem of all. He was by no means certain he could hold Vorkosigan against his will, not now that his hands were between Vorkosigan's, even with duty and conscience allied. Could he hold a nerve disruptor to Vorkosigan's head in earnest, could he project the aura of utter ruthlessness that it would require? Better not to make the attempt than to try and fail. He would not be able to bluff Vorkosigan; he rarely had managed it during their sparring sessions. His hand slid to the stunner. That he could do, though it was not the right weapon for the circumstances, and Vorkosigan would not miss the message it sent.

Vorkosigan was utterly absorbed in the preparations for battle, relaying curt instructions to his officers and constantly checking every piece of data as it arrived. Illyan doubted that the other officers would be able to continue as effectively with their leader removed. He reached a decision. As long as Vorkosigan seemed to be acting in Barrayar's interests, as long as he confined himself to protecting the fleet from the effects of his own crime, Illyan would let things continue and keep his new knowledge to himself. Vorkosigan was under de facto house arrest anyway, and better to get some use out of him than to lock him in the brig. Perhaps some new information would surface... Illyan grimaced, knowing a false hope when he saw one. There was no way he could get Vorkosigan out of this crime, no way he ought to even think of trying. Vorkosigan had lied and had sent men knowingly to their deaths.

He recalled another outstanding problem and waited until Vorkosigan was unoccupied for a moment. Then he beckoned Vorkosigan to a quiet corner where they could speak privately. It took all his skill to speak to Vorkosigan exactly as he had before he had gained this nightmare knowledge.

"Sir. Captain Naismith and Bothari. We can't leave them in your cabin indefinitely." Heaven only knew what Naismith would do if she thought she'd been abandoned there.

Vorkosigan blinked, drawn out of his intent concentration on the battle. "I don't think they'll do anything. But yes, I'm not entirely happy about leaving her to care for Bothari. Take him to the chief surgeon and try to get him what he needs."

"But if what Captain Naismith says is true, he murdered the Admiral."

Vorkosigan's face hardened. "Simon, only two days ago you were about to help me murder Admiral and the Emperor's son into the bargain. Why should Bothari be punished for something you would have been happy to do?"

Illyan knew a lost cause when he saw one. "Very well. And Captain Naismith?"

"The brig, I suppose. But not till I'm satisfied about who's in charge there. Leave her be for the time being. If you're really jumpy about it, you can seal the door from the outside."

"Yes, sir."

Vorkosigan returned to his analysis, and Illyan paused in thought. He feared to leave Vorkosigan unwatched, now, but there was nobody else to whom he could entrust this task. He pulled a small case out of his pocket and stood still a moment, apparently fiddling with a button, then allowed one of his hands to brush Vorkosigan's jacket as he turned to go. At least he would have a record of what was said in his absence.

He hurried to Vorkosigan's cabin. Captain Naismith jumped as he opened the door and slipped inside.

"What's going on? Is he all right?"

 _He_ was presumably Commodore Vorkosigan. No, Illyan thought, he's not all right at all. "He's fine, ma'am. I'm taking Sergeant Bothari away now."

"Oh. What will happen to him? You're not going to shoot him, are you?"

"It's not my decision, ma'am. I'm taking him to sickbay."

He scanned the room. Bothari was half-sitting slumped in a corner, eyes shut.

"He's starting to wake up. I wasn't sure whether to give him more sedative or not; it's been six hours since the last dose."

Illyan weighed the options. Carrying a sedated Bothari on a float pallet would be easier than trying to persuade a man of dubious sanity to follow him to sickbay without causing a disturbance. "Yes, give him some. I'll be back in a minute."

He dashed to the nearest first-aid post and took the float pallet. Automatically, half-helplessly, he entered the removal on the console, so that it would be flagged up for the medical supplies officer to replace. Let them wonder what it was for. Then he and Naismith loaded Bothari onto it and covered him with a blanket, half-obscuring his face. People would wonder, of course, when they saw the Commodore's shadow alone with a float pallet, but nobody would question him. Of that he had made certain.

Lavalle glared at him when Illyan called him away from his work. He seemed tired and harassed, as well he might.

"Well? What do you want now? More mysterious demands for dangerous drugs? I've done my best for that girl you pointed me at, and she's still in the isolation ward. Got any more victims?" His tone was bitterly sarcastic.

Illyan gave an impassive nod. "Another victim, well, you could say that." He propelled the float pallet forward. "I think he'd better go into isolation too, though definitely not with the girl. Keep him sedated and quiet and out of sight; the Commodore will want to deal with him specially."

The surgeon recognised Bothari at once. "What the hell is he doing here? I heard he had been killed or kidnapped by the Betan prisoner who murdered Admiral Vorrutyer."

"That's not far from the truth," Illyan said cautiously. "Commodore Vorkosigan will deal with him," he repeated. "I'm not saying any more than that; apply to Vorkosigan or Negri if you need to know more."

The surgeon gave a sour smile. "The less the better. I'll take care of him."

It was many hours later when he finally persuaded Vorkosigan to ensure Captain Naismith was properly confined. Vorkosigan had insisted on a personal tour of the brig during a lull in the preparations, and had relieved the commanding officer of his position pending an enquiry about how prisoners had been treated by the senior officers. Illyan was pleased to see Leo Angelov placed in charge, given brevet promotion to fit the position Vorkosigan had decided would suit him. He whisked Naismith away to the brig and rejoined Vorkosigan in the tac room.

The battle began in earnest as they reached the body of the fleet and the Escobaran pursuit simultaneously. The ship shuddered under the impact of the Escobaran fire, and the gravity and lights failed repeatedly as engineers struggled to divert all power to the shields. Illyan, strapped into his station chair beside Vorkosigan, was shaken like a rock in a bucket. He observed with no little amazement that all the officers seemed perfectly able to continue their work as the ship absorbed shot after shot. Hours passed as the flagship struggled along with the rest of the fleet to reach the wormhole, harried by their Escobaran pursuers. It would, Illyan grew to realise, be very close, but the peril of the battle seemed barely to register after spending days dancing from lethal situation to lethal situation. Vorkosigan took a stim, and Illyan reluctantly did the same, knowing he would pay for it later. It gave his weary thoughts a jagged-edged clarity, lights too bright and sounds too loud. But they both had to be alert for this.

At the wormhole, Vorkosigan kept the flagship back along with a few other of the largest and least damaged ships to hold off pursuit whilst the smaller and wounded ships jumped to safety. Unable to use any of the ship's main plasma weaponry, Vorkosigan made incredible use of mines and his few tactical nukes, and once a Barrayaran ship actually rammed an Escobaran dreadnought that was chewing up a group of supply ships. Illyan watched, confused. How could Vorkosigan both have created this disaster and be fighting so brilliantly to save it?

When the last wounded ship had jumped to safety, leaving only the flagship itself behind, Vorkosigan called up the launch bay. "Is Jumpscout Bravo ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Give me the pilot, please."

Illyan watched over his shoulder as the pilot, pale and stern, appeared on the viewscreen. Vorkosigan looked at him in silence, then said, "You understand your orders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Vorkosigan was silent again. "And your crew?"

"We're all ready, sir."

"The Emperor salutes your courage," Vorkosigan said at last, and cut the comm.

"They're all volunteers, sir," Commodore Couer said. "Single men, too."

Vorkosigan's look was enough to make Couer close his mouth. Then Vorkosigan called the bridge. "Jump as soon as Bravo's away."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Illyan relaxed slightly as the flagship jumped. His chip made a more energetic than usual attempt to scramble his brains, and when they emerged on the other side he had a hand pressed to his head, trying to get his memories in order and not take his eyes off Vorkosigan. God, he hated jumping.

The frenzy of battle was redirected into a frenzy of damage control, rescue and triage. Of the entire fleet, twelve ships had been lost, some at Escobar, where Illyan devoutly hoped the Escobarans would take prisoners, others in the retreat. Vorkosigan began to receive the reports of the men and ships lost, starting with the four-man crew of Jumpscout Bravo. Illyan looked at the warning lights on the wormhole monitor, indicating that it was now impassable.

Vorkosigan sat at his console for hours, coordinating and organising the work, and Illyan watched grimly. This was what Vorkosigan had done, defeat and rescue both. When the flow of work started to slow, Vorkosigan pushed back his chair and got up.

"Sickbay," he said briefly, and Illyan followed him through the ship, past busy repair crews and sealed-off corridors to the large sickbay. At the entrance stood a hollow-eyed medtech triaging the wounded from the worst-damaged ships, who were still arriving in bursts. There were four men on float pallets lying in the corridor. The medtech went through the last of the current batch of arrivals, and another man was set down in the corridor, whilst the rest were hurried inside. Illyan glanced at the nearest casualty and saw the black-penned X on his forehead. He swallowed. There were some decisions he was glad were not his to make. He followed Vorkosigan into sickbay, keeping well out of the way of the busy medics. As well as the three full operating theatres under Dr Lavalle's supervision, there were exhausted-looking medics doing lesser surgery all over the room, and other medtechs moving swiftly about. It was surprisingly quiet, just the quick jargon of the medics to each other, and the low gut-wrenching sounds of the wounded men.

Vorkosigan walked through the least chaotic parts of the room, stopping now and then to speak to some injured man who seemed to want company. Then he went back out to the men in the corridor. One, Illyan saw, was newly dead, and three others were unconscious. Vorkosigan moved towards the fifth man, who lay quietly, eyes open in a face made almost unrecognisable by burns, a foil heat wrap carefully pulled up to his chin concealing God alone knew what mess beneath. The man saw Vorkosigan and mumbled something Illyan, a few steps behind, couldn't hear. Vorkosigan crouched down.

"Adm'ral," the man repeated. "Did we win?"

Vorkosigan took a long breath, extending a hand towards the man but hesitating to touch him. "Yes," he said, and his voice grew firmer as he spoke. "Yes, we won. You won."

"Good," said the man on a long exhale. He didn't speak again, but his eyes remained on Vorkosigan. Illyan stood silently by, listening to the man breathe, long rattling exhalations with a longer and longer wait for each intake of breath. Then a silence. Vorkosigan leaned forward and, very deliberately, kissed the man's forehead and stood up. His face as he turned away made Illyan blench.

They said nothing as they returned to the flag bridge, where all the devastation was safely on the other side of the console. Vorkosigan took a package of stimulants out of his pocket for the second time, and Illyan grimaced. They'd already been awake for almost forty hours, and the battle was over. Surely they didn't have to stay awake for another ten to twelve hours that the new dose of stims would last for? He saw Couer giving him an imploring look, and turned to scan Vorkosigan again. More stims would cause disaster later, he rather feared. He realised he was supposed to deal with this. He did so simply and directly, lifting the package from Vorkosigan's hands as his tired fingers fumbled with the sealed tabs.

"What do you think you're doing, Lieutenant?" Vorkosigan demanded.

Illyan chose a course of action he suspected would force Vorkosigan's hand. "I can't handle another dose even if you can," he said. "You can afford a sleep-cycle now."

The reminder that his choices would affect his watchdog worked. Vorkosigan must be tired. "Oh. All right." The previous dose of stimulant was wearing off fast. Illyan could feel the sucking pit of exhaustion drawing him down too.

"I've had a sleep-cycle, sir," Couer put in quickly.

"Good. All right then. It's all yours. Thank you all, you've done well." Vorkosigan gave his staffers a nod and left the tac room. Illyan followed, automatically. He was glad he had when Vorkosigan's steps began to waver as the stimulant dropped him.

"Damn," Vorkosigan muttered drowsily. "You'd think they'd design something that didn't leave you like a landed fish when it wore off."

Illyan was starting to feel the same effects himself, but his duty kept his feet moving. He took Vorkosigan's arm and propelled him onwards. The walk to the cabin seemed interminable, and when they arrived Vorkosigan was all but asleep on his feet. Illyan bullied him into taking his boots off and let him collapse onto the bunk. Then Illyan sat for a minute himself on the station chair. Only a minute, he told himself, then he'd go to his own cabin, just another minute of rest…

He woke thick-headed and sour-mouthed, to a moment of total confusion before he recognised where he was. Curled up on the floor of Vorkosigan's cabin. His chip helpfully provided him with a memory his organic mind lacked, of him slipping off the chair and stretching out on the friction matting at the foot of Vorkosigan's bunk. The image made him writhe with embarrassment and anger. Damn it, Vorkosigan was a suspect now, a probable traitor, what kind of ImpSec man slept unguarded at the foot of a traitor's bed like the dog everyone called him? If his subconscious was trying to tell him something, it could just use the comconsole.

Vorkosigan was already awake, watching him with faint amusement.

"Sorry to have kept you going so long yesterday. Go take half an hour; I'll make a start over the comconsole here."

Illyan retreated to his cabin to shower and change and eat breakfast, still writhing internally. When he returned, Vorkosigan gave him a brisk nod.

"Let's get to it, then."

The flag bridge was much calmer now, and Commodore Couer began his report of the night-cycle's events. They were coming into orbit around the new planet, shepherding the limping and wounded ships, and it seemed no further catastrophes had occurred. Couer brought his long train of reports to an end with, "and we're just getting ready to ship that last batch of prisoners off to the POW camp now."

Vorkosigan whipped around. "No!"

Couer recoiled. Vorkosigan controlled himself and said in explanation, "I don't like what I've heard from down there. I'm going to investigate as soon as possible, but I'm not sending any other prisoners down until I've been there in person."

Couer frowned. "But sir, with all the survivors from the _Vengeance_ here now, we're getting more and more overcrowded, right up to the safety margins. Even if there is a problem, a bit of knocking about won't be the end of the world…"

Vorkosigan's voice dropped. "No prisoner under my authority will suffer anything we wouldn't put our own men through. They stay. That's an order, Commodore."

Couer gulped. "Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant, please make getting to the prison camp a top priority for me. Today or tomorrow."

Illyan nodded impassively. Vorkosigan would not, he knew, be willing to put Captain Naismith through whatever the average Barrayaran prison guard thought was suitable treatment for woman soldiers, and in that, Illyan could agree. He worked through Vorkosigan's schedule, found a slot and made the necessary arrangements. He would be glad, he thought, to get off this ship.

*

On the shuttle, Vorkosigan worked feverishly through paperwork until they entered the atmosphere. Then he set all the flimsies aside and stared at the bulkhead. Illyan, who had been dozing in a corner, sat up and turned his attention to Vorkosigan. At last Vorkosigan said, "I hope I won't have to shoot anyone."

Illyan tilted his head attentively. After a moment, Vorkosigan continued, "I know what normal treatment for prisoners is, in the minds of many of our senior officers."

"Not the younger ones."

"No. Or at least not the ones who avoided the Prince's orbit."

There was another long silence, broken by Commodore Couer entering their compartment. "We'll be landing in five minutes, sir."

"Ah. Good." Vorkosigan crossed to the viewing port and watched as their shuttle soared over the planet. Illyan and Couer joined him and they watched as the ground base came into sight below. It was a beautiful planet, Illyan thought, well worth acquiring for Barrayar. Even Vorkosigan's expression softened a little as he looked over the landscape. But his expression turned hard as he looked at the prison camp. Commodore Couer's face showed a more genuine pleasure.

"God, it'll be nice to get off the ship for a while," he remarked. "Gorgeous place."

Vorkosigan grunted. The shuttle touched down neatly on the landing pad, and a few moments later a saluting corporal came to their compartment.

"Good afternoon, sirs. If you'll come this way…."

Illyan took a deep breath of clean air when he was outside. It was warm and fresh and made his heart lift for the first time in weeks. Couer looked similarly content, but Vorkosigan seemed not to notice.

"Colonel Vorville is on his way, sir," the corporal announced. Vorkosigan nodded. Illyan ran a search through his chip for any information about the colonel, and found only the briefest of mentions of him, nothing to give him any clues as to what they might expect to find. What could he learn from nothing, he wondered. That Vorville was not one of the Prince's men, nor Grishnov's. Just an ordinary Barrayaran officer. Perhaps Vorkosigan's fears would be proved unnecessary. He considered what an ordinary Barrayaran officer was like, and thought that was a false hope.

Vorville bustled up trailed by a handful of his junior officers, all painfully neat in their dress uniforms.

"I'm honoured by your visit," Vorville said. "I am sorry things turned out this way, sir. I wanted you to be in charge from the beginning."

Vorkosigan only grunted. "I'd like a tour of the camp, then I want to go over your records. The Interstellar Judiciary will be sending a commission here soon, and I need to know what they will find."

"Of course, sir. We've been running the camp in the normal way." Vorville led them from the shuttlepad over a roughly laid path, talking rapidly about the construction of the camp and the number of soldiers he had under his command and the capacity of the fleet depot. They walked through rows of storage buildings, past the field hospital and the admin buildings. Vorville asked, "Do you want to go into the prisoners' area, sir?"

"Of course I do."

Vorville gave Vorkosigan a sideways look, then glanced at Couer and Illyan. There was the hint of a smile on his face. "The women are in E block, the nearest. And—well, I'm sure you can find what you want. I'll leave you to it, sirs."

Illyan saw, as he doubted the other two men did, Vorkosigan's fists clench at his sides. "I wish you to accompany us, Colonel," he said in tones that froze the air. "We are intending to tour the entire camp."

Vorville's eyes widened in dismay. "Er, as you wish, sir, yes, of course." He hurried towards the entrance, where one of the guards winked knowingly at them as he lowered the force-screen in the entrance. Perhaps fortunately, Vorkosigan did not see.

They saw very few prisoners immediately on entering the enclave. The place seemed standard from the outside, nothing to attract interest.

"Is there anything particular you wanted to see, sir?" Vorville asked anxiously.

"How many prisoners do you have here?" Vorkosigan asked.

"Eight hundred and three. And two hundred and eighty-six—no, eighty-five—women. We're expecting another batch soon, I believe."

Illyan noted the distinction between 'prisoners' and 'women'. Vorville was a man of his generation. Vorkosigan leapt on the discrepancy in numbers.

"Two hundred eighty-six or eighty-five?"

"Well, we found one hanged in a bathroom the other day."

Vorkosigan's jaw clenched. "What happened?" he demanded. "Murder, accident, suicide?"

Vorville shrugged. "The senior female non-com said suicide. I don't know. A shame, of course, but these things happen."

Couer was beginning to look at Vorkosigan with the same anxious watchfulness he would give an unexploded grenade, but Vorville seemed oblivious to the rising wrath of his commander. Illyan wondered whether to intervene if Vorkosigan attacked the camp commandant. Only if it looked likely to be fatal, he decided.

Vorkosigan opened a door to one of the shelters. Inside were four men sitting on the ground playing some game with pebbles. They fell silent as the Barrayarans appeared. One stared angrily at them, the others looked away. Illyan surveyed the room. There was a line of bunks with suitable bedding, more than enough and apparently in good repair, a bathroom, reasonably clean. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he had feared. Vorkosigan nodded to the prisoners and they went out again. The path was muddy, and Illyan realised that he'd have to clean his boots for the first time in months. There were some definite benefits to serving on spaceships.

They rounded the corner and looked down the next line of shelters. "They're all the same, sir," Vorville volunteered, clearly wishing to be over with this. "There's plenty of space, we were expecting more prisoners than we have."

"So I see," Vorkosigan said. He stared around, then nodded. "All right. Carry on, colonel."

They made their way out of the prisoners' area and went on to the barracks for the ground troops who had shuttled back down yesterday. Outside the first building they came to, they heard raucous noises from inside. Colonel Vorville gave a slight smile.

"High spirits," he said. "They're always like this, first day on the ground. We turn a blind eye, mostly."

"You have some military police around in case of trouble?" Vorkosigan said.

"Yes, sir, but the boys have been pretty good, really. And there's no trouble with locals here, of course."

Vorkosigan nodded, and made to turn away. "Well, we won't spoil their--"

There was a cry from inside the barracks, high-pitched above the guffaws and shouts of the soldiers, something in Escobaran Spanish. Vorkosigan whirled around. Illyan followed automatically.

Without speaking, Vorkosigan opened the door and looked inside. There were about forty soldiers gathered in the main part of the building, obviously drinking whatever bootleg spirits were distilled here. In the centre of the room were four naked women, their hair clipped short like space troops, surrounded by soldiers pawing at them and laughing.

Illyan's hand shot out as Vorkosigan reached almost without thought for his nerve disruptor. His fingers closed like a manacle around Vorkosigan's wrist. Even the Hero of Komarr couldn't march into a barracks and start shooting at soldiers, no matter how blind a rage he was in.

For a moment he thought Vorkosigan was going to deck him. Then Vorkosigan inhaled slowly, and Illyan released him. None of the soldiers had noticed their presence, all watching the women jump and squeal. Vorville, at the back, was starting to speak.

"Sir, it's just a party--"

Vorkosigan turned to look at him, and Vorville fell silent. Illyan thought an advancing army would have hesitated at Vorkosigan's expression. Vorkosigan strode into the barracks, Illyan and Couer flanking him. At first they went unnoticed, but when Illyan kicked the legs out from under a soldier who drunkenly tried to stop them, heads began to turn, and a silence fell as everyone recognised their Admiral. A path opened up to the centre of the room, and the soldiers around the women moved away.

They reached the four Escobaran prisoners, and Illyan saw Vorkosigan falter for a moment as they cowered away from him. Illyan supposed that from their perspective the sudden arrival of the Butcher of Komarr in a murderous rage would not appear to be an improvement. He spotted their orange coveralls in a heap on the floor, picked them up and tossed them to the women. "Get dressed," he said quietly.

Vorkosigan gave him a nod of thanks. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere above the women's heads.

There had been some resentful muttering at the back of the barracks, but as everyone got a good view of Vorkosigan, even that died away. "This," Vorkosigan said, "is _finished_."

The women had pulled their coveralls back on. Vorkosigan jerked his head, and they stumbled along the open pathway towards the exit, clinging to each other.

"See them back to the prisoner's area," Vorkosigan said to Couer. "Then find the senior Escobaran prisoner and bring him to Vorville's office." He looked at the women, opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. "Go back," he said finally. "This won't happen again." He looked at Vorville. "There are other prisoners around here, I know. They are all going to be back inside the prison compound within ten minutes, unharmed."

Vorville opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Illyan moved slightly, and Vorville looked at him. "Yes, sir," he said. There wasn't anything else he could say, Illyan knew.

Vorville sent a couple of junior officers off to carry these orders out, and they walked along towards the admin buildings. Vorkosigan stopped when they saw another half-dozen Escobarans, five women and a rather attractive young man, being escorted back to the prison camp by a pale ensign. The prisoners shied away from the Barrayaran officers. Vorkosigan gave Vorville a fierce look and continued to walk.

As Vorkosigan strode ahead, Vorville contrived to get alongside Illyan. In a low voice he said, "I'm not sure what your role is here, but you seem to have some sort of, er, influence, over Commodore Vorkosigan. Can you get him away from this nonsense? It's not good for the Service."

Taking Illyan's blank, guarded look for encouragement, Vorville adopted a confidential air. "I wonder if defeat has, hmm, unsettled him? Of course the men have taken some liberties with the prisoners, it's only natural, especially since we were forced to retreat. I understand we didn't retreat until Vorkosigan took command, and now this favouring Escobarans—it won't look good at home, you know." Obviously pleased with this construction, Vorville gave Illyan a conspiratorial nod.

Illyan kept his face still. A part of him could see a thread of truth in Vorville's argument. If Illyan's private deductions were correct, Vorkosigan had deliberately kept life-saving knowledge from his men and had been expecting the retreat all along. Illyan himself suspected his charge of pro-Escobaran, or more likely pro-Betan, sentiment. Treason, indeed. But he could see nothing but justice in Vorkosigan's handling of this situation. That was the measure of the man Illyan wanted to take for true, if only he could see a way. He turned to face Vorville.

"I believe I understand you," he said. "I shall, of course, be reporting this conversation to Captain Negri."

Vorville blanched. Illyan completed the blow by striding forwards to come alongside Vorkosigan.

"What did he offer you?" Vorkosigan asked without turning to look at him.

"Sorry?"

"What did Vorville offer you to get me off his case?"

"I don't think he's the sort to try a bribe. He tried to persuade me you must be a pro-Escobaran traitor." As Illyan said the words, he watched Vorkosigan carefully for a betraying flinch, but Vorkosigan only sighed.

"I doubt he's going to survive this. He seems to be stupid rather than actively cruel, but that level of stupidity is criminal in itself."

They reached Vorville's office, and Vorkosigan claimed the central chair behind the desk, leaving Vorville to stand. Illyan folded his arms and leaned against the wall at the side of the room, where he had a good view of everyone. They waited in silence a few minutes, and then Couer arrived.

"The senior Escobaran officer, sir," said Couer. "Commodore Hernandez."

A tall man in orange coveralls was escorted into the office. He was leaning on the guard accompanying him, and his face was lined and grey. Vorkosigan's brows snapped down. "I didn't mean that you were to drag him out of the infirmary, Couer!" he said.

Couer opened his mouth, but Hernandez beat him to it. "What infirmary?" he asked bitterly.

"He insisted on coming himself, sir," Couer said in self-defence.

Illyan grimaced and pulled up a chair, but Hernandez remained standing. "I wish," he said, "to protest in the strongest possible terms the treatment of my men and women. Under the Interstellar Judiciary Convention, clause two--"

"Sit down," Vorkosigan interrupted him. "I have some news for you, sir. I am Commodore Vorkosigan, and I am now in overall command of the Barrayaran fleet and of this camp. We no longer have any offensive force in Escobaran space."

A delicate way of saying 'you chased us out of your space with our tails between our legs,' Illyan thought. He watched Hernandez's face change as he took Vorkosigan's meaning. He took a deep breath, then lowered himself into the chair.

"So," he murmured, "our fleet did its work at last. Good." He mumbled something under his breath in Escobaran Spanish that Illyan thought might be a prayer. Then he leaned forward, suddenly seeming much stronger, and said, "So now you wish to speak with me?"

Vorkosigan looked like he was swallowing something very bitter. "I wish to send you as my envoy to your high command. Or any of your officers you might name, if you prefer."

Hernandez glared at him. "I will not abandon my people here to you. I will not go."

With visible patience, Vorkosigan said, "I would be happy to take your recommendation as to whom I can send."

"Lieutenant Alfredo, perhaps," Hernandez said venomously. "And some of her junior officers with her. As many of the women as I can get away from here. Though you'll only start on the young men then, I expect."

Vorkosigan stood up, paced across the office, turned the chair around and sat with his arms resting on its back, his fists clenched. "Commodore Hernandez," he said, "I give you my word upon my name as Vorkosigan that there will be no further harm done to your people here, men or women."

Hernandez gave him an incredulous look. "Really," he said flatly. "You'll forgive me if I require more assurance than that."

"Tell me," Vorkosigan said, "what has been happening here."

There was a long silence, and then Hernandez began to speak. Illyan listened, sickened. Rape, of course, of both women and men, by everyone from privates to colonels. Denial of medical care for the wounded. Casual beatings. Deliberate humiliations. The failure to investigate the suicide of the woman, who, being pretty and young, had been repeatedly raped. Senior officers at the depot using prisoners as personal body-slaves. Nothing Illyan would not have expected after months of Ges and Serg.

Couer was green before he was more than halfway through, and Vorville was quivering between indignation and fear. And, to do him justice, disbelief. Vorkosigan's face was granite.

"All right," Vorkosigan said softly when Hernandez finally wound down. "All right. This will now cease." He looked at the guards on the door. "Colonel Vorville is under arrest," he told them. His gaze flicked to Vorville's second, a pale young captain who looked almost as horrified as Couer. "You are now in command of this camp. Your first task is going to be to go over the entire guard rota for the prison camp and get rid of all the bad apples. I don't want anyone guarding that camp you wouldn't trust with your little sister. And stop by at the hospital and tell them there is to be a fully-equipped medical centre in the prisoners' area. If there are insufficent Escobaran medics amongst the prisoners, I want it staffed too. With a suitable guard, of course."

"Sir, our infirmary is working at capacity with the men from the ships," Vorville began. Vorkosigan looked at him.

"You are relieved of command here, colonel. This is not your concern." He nodded to the guards. "Take Colonel Vorville away," he said.

Vorville looked like he didn't quite believe what was happening to him as he was marched out of the office. The young captain who was replacing him looked terrorised. Illyan felt a certain wry sympathy.

"Now, Commodore Hernandez," Vorkosigan said. "We were discussing whom to send as my envoy to your command."

There was a faint flicker of hope in Hernandez's eyes.

*

The court-martial was the same day, late in the evening. Vorkosigan had routed up all the senior officers he could find, persuaded Couer to act for Vorville, and sat himself as judge. Illyan gave evidence of what he had witnessed along with Hernandez and a number of pale young officers. Couer, who must have spent hours conning up on military law, reluctantly did his best for Vorville, but nobody was surprised when Vorkosigan passed his judgement.

Vorkosigan went to see the condemned man a short time before the execution the following morning, whilst the prisoners were being ordered out onto the parade ground to watch. Illyan followed, though he would have given much to escape.

"If you have any message, anything you want me to convey to your family…" Vorkosigan began after entering the cell.

Vorville stared dumbly at him. Finally he said, "They'll have to know, won't they? You can't tell them I died in battle?"

"No."

"I didn't mean for it to go so far," Vorville said suddenly. "I mean, it's not like they were respectable women, they were female soldiers, they must have been screwed by every soldier in the Escobaran army before they came here."

Vorkosigan said nothing to this. He didn't need to: his glare was sufficient. Vorville quailed. After a thick silence, Vorkosigan turned and left the cell.

As Vorville faced the firing squad, Vorkosigan's expression was almost as dead as the Escobaran woman's had been. Illyan could not disagree with the verdict of the court-martial, and he knew the political and practical reasoning behind Vorkosigan's sentence, but Vorkosigan's face frightened him, not rage or righteous anger or even grief, but bare emptiness.

Illyan watched. This was sometimes the end result of an ImpSec investigation; sometimes his actions, his decisions, would send men to be executed. Vorville had finished his recriminations and last-ditch arguments some time ago and now stood silent, retaining some measure of dignity. Illyan ran through the evidence stored on his chip: rape, torture, slavery, easy cruelties practiced with this man's lazy consent. The squad raised their weapons, a brief order, the air crackled with energy bolts. Colonel Vorville crumpled, convulsed, and was still. Illyan's eyes flickered to Vorkosigan's face, but it was still blank.

This was a merciful death compared to that reserved for Vor traitors. Illyan had been too young to see the Vor lords who were executed by Ezar at the start of his reign, bound and caged in the Great Square, to die of hunger and exposure. If his reasoning was correct, he would see Vorkosigan die that death when they returned to Barrayar.

Unless there was some explanation, some loophole… but he knew he had been over the evidence time and time again in his head, lain awake scanning his chip for clues, and had found nothing. If it had been a textbook problem, he knew he would have accepted the answer long ago: Vorkosigan was a very clever traitor who had left only a single betraying clue, and only a spy as alert and talented as Illyan himself could have spotted it. Full marks, Cadet Illyan, take a gold star. Textbook problems didn't break his heart.

*

That evening he sat quietly in his corner of Vorkosigan's private office whilst they waited for a scheduled vid-meeting with Trakai on the flagship. Vorkosigan was dealing with the pile of paperwork that had arrived since their last sweep through the office. Illyan had offered to leave, but Vorkosigan had merely shrugged, so he had taken up his accustomed chair and his book-viewer instead.

He became aware after a time that Vorkosigan was no longer working, but staring out through the window at the dusky planet. It was a lovely scene, even with the prison camp in the foreground, but from Vorkosigan's expression his meditations were not lovely.

After some time Vorkosigan broke the silence, his voice oddly conversational. "You'd stop me if I tried to eat my nerve disruptor, I suppose."

For a second Illyan's ImpSec-trained mask fell and he stared open-mouthed at Vorkosigan in horror. Then his training kicked in, and in almost equally relaxed tones, as if they were discussing events a thousand years ago, he said, "Certainly I would."

Thoughts raced through his head, almost too quickly to consider. Perhaps suicide was the only honourable way out of this situation for a traitor. It was the Vor thing to do, but Illyan was no Vor and had frequently doubted that there was anything particularly honourable about escaping a difficult situation by one's own death. Was he going to have to sit on suicide watch now, and should he try to relieve Vorkosigan of his deadly weapons? His eye flickered to the nerve disruptor at Vorkosigan's hip.

"My father wouldn't like it. And I suppose Cor--Captain Naismith wouldn't like it, either. And I mean to speak to her about…" he trailed off.

Illyan sat quietly, hoping for more, for any information that would help bring order to the chaos of his thoughts. Speak to her about what? The success of this plot?

"Not that she'll be happy about it all."

Why ever would she not, Illyan wondered. Her people had won, Vorkosigan had betrayed the Barrayarans into her hands, surely nothing could please her more?

Vorkosigan glanced at Illyan with a wryly twisted lip. "At least Negri should be happy."

The words turned in Illyan's mind like a key in a lock. He sat paralysed, as a thousand facts began to open up in his mind. Negri would be happy. Negri's agents had provided no information to help the invasion fleet. Negri had the best spy network on Beta and Escobar. If any Barrayaran could have known about the plasma mirrors in advance, it was Negri. If any Barrayaran could have desired to sabotage the invasion, it was Negri. But Negri only breathed because the Emperor willed it; it was outside the realm of possibility that Negri would act without Ezar's approval. Vorkosigan's long meetings alone with Negri and the Emperor, a thousand other things he had seen and disregarded, began to click into place in Illyan's mind. And then, abruptly, Serg's death made sense, and Illyan realised that he had been used along with thousands of others as part of the most terrible ImpSec operation ever, starting an entire war just to remove a dangerous Imperial Heir.

But it had not been Vorkosigan's plot, he had not betrayed the Emperor. In the midst of the ugliness he had just uncovered, even as he began to feel cold and sick as he understood why he had been assigned to this duty, what he had all unwitting done, Illyan held to that thought.


	14. Chapter 14

The days stretched to weeks, spent shuttling back and forth from the flagship to the depot and all around the fleet. Illyan was exhausted, and he hadn't even been doing the work. Vorkosigan was worn to a thread. Illyan had innocently assumed everything would get easier once the fighting was over. Instead, there were diplomats coming back and forth, trying to arrange all sorts of treaties and concessions; there were the ten thousand soldiers who had to be returned home, all their equipment examined and losses calculated and damage made good; there were the endless medical reports, retrieval of dead bodies and damaged ships and arrangements for funerals; there was the business of paying for everything, which had Vorkosigan composing furious memos to Headquarters on Barrayar; there were the painful negotiations with the victorious and very angry Escobarans, in which Vorkosigan had to swallow almost everything the Escobaran Almirante said and smile; there were reports on every aspect of the battles, with commendations and reprimands to be dealt out; and then on top of that there was some very unofficial housecleaning going on. It had taken a few days for Illyan to spot the pattern, but time after time, officers who had been close to Vorrutyer or the Prince were being punished for ungentlemanly conduct, or were being 'reassigned' to very long, tedious and unimportant duties that would keep them away from Barrayar for months, or were abruptly resigning their commissions to spend more time with their families. Yet another piece of the puzzle connecting.

But in a way he was glad Vorkosigan was working so hard. It was when he stopped that Illyan feared for him. When not exhausted by his schedule he did not sleep, when not socially obliged to eat he fasted, and whenever he was alone he sat and brooded in grim silence. Illyan's dread of having to break his door down one morning grew stronger.

He understood the reason, of course, all too well. He felt some of the same anguish himself. A war, a fucking interstellar war with over ten thousand dead, to get rid of the Prince and his supporters. He could see the whole train of events now, and could see how he had been used within them, as Ezar's leash, or whip perhaps, to keep Vorkosigan at his post, and as a witness to everything. He'd been intended to be an ignorant witness, with as little opinion and initiative as the vid-camera that was his code name in reports. But now he knew what he'd done, now, and he wondered whether he could ever serve as Ezar's camera again.

Vorkosigan, though had gone in with his eyes open and the knowledge of what he was doing in his every act. Every time Illyan called up a memory of the past months, he saw the clues he hadn't noticed at the time, the cracks through which Vorkosigan's knowledge had leaked. Illyan had thought he'd understood the pressures Vorkosigan had been under with Vorrutyer and the Prince, but now he knew he'd only seen the surface. It was small wonder Vorkosigan had used himself up, now.

So he was glad when Vorkosigan asked him to find a gap in his schedule to visit Captain Naismith again. He even yielded to Vorkosigan's appeal for some time alone with her, now that he was confident Vorkosigan was no traitor. He suspected, from the conversation between them before they went off alone, that they were discussing something beyond a wedding, but he let it pass. It was a gift he could give Vorkosigan, and it seemed the only medicine that might ease what wounded him.

He sat watchful guard on the path up to the hill where they had retreated for privacy. Three half-drunk young space officers, evidently on leave, came along, laughing and joking. Illyan rose from his perch on a fallen log, and stood in the pathway, not speaking. They stared at him, and one opened his mouth to protest, but another saw Illyan's collar tabs and dragged the others away. They retreated, and Illyan sat back down.

He gave them as long together as he dared, counting seconds in his head and estimating how late Vorkosigan could be before the staff would grow restive. When he finally went to interrupt them, they were in each other's arms, Vorkosigan twining his fingers in Naismith's hair and pressing her close. Illyan smiled and walked more slowly, making as much noise as he could, but they were so absorbed in each other that he finally had to cough and speak to attract Vorkosigan's attention.

"May I congratulate you, sir?" he asked, hopefully.

"No, Lieutenant," Vorkosigan returned. He reached out, unconsciously, towards Naismith, then clasped his hands firmly behind his back. Illyan looked at their matching unhappy expressions and sighed as he fell in behind them as they walked back down the path.

After they returned Naismith to the prison camp, Vorkosigan hesitated, watching her go. Illyan stood by.

"She's right," Vorkosigan muttered. "Who'd be a Barrayaran?"

*

Once Captain Naismith had departed for Beta, it got worse. After a gruelling day with the Imperial Commissioner sent out from the Ministry of Finance specifically, as far as Illyan could tell, to make sure each ship in the fleet fell apart for lack of a half-mark's worth of screws, Illyan was trying to get to sleep when Vorkosigan summoned him.

Yawning, Illyan dragged himself out of bed, into his uniform and along to Vorkosigan's quarters.

"There you are. You took your time."

Illyan took in the details and gave the door a firm push to seal it behind him. Vorkosigan was in his shirtsleeves, his face flushed and a half-empty bottle of some dubious-looking pale amber liquid on the table before him. "Sir?" he said, trying to sound neutral and aware he wasn't quite succeeding.

"I'm going to go wrestle with our dear friend from HQ again, and I need you for that," Vorkosigan explained. "Come on."

"Now?" he said. Vorkosigan had dragged him out of bed for this?

"Now I can tell him what I _want_ to say instead of what fucking politics demands that I say," Vorkosigan answered. He stood up and lurched sideways, steadying himself on the wall. Illyan watched in increasing alarm.

"You're drunk," he said, hoping the blunt approach would work. It sometimes did. But Vorkosigan only bared his teeth.

"They should be used to that at HQ, or why else did they appoint me? If I'm drunk, then they can blame everything on me instead of facing up to the fact that their cowardly pussyfooting around in the Council and with the Ministry of Finance is the real source of our problems with getting the fleet home."

Illyan had heard that Vorkosigan tended to blunt political commentary in his cups. He made a polite please-go-on noise, in the hope of distracting Vorkosigan from his original plan, but unfortunately Vorkosigan was as goal-oriented drunk as he was sober. He pushed off the wall and approached the door. Illyan sighed and moved into Vorkosigan's path, blocking him.

"Why don't you compose a memo?" he offered. Which he could then submit to Vorkosigan for review once he had slept this off.

"No. Face-to-face is so much better when you need to talk frankly, and the Commissioner will be returning tomorrow."

Mercifully, in Illyan's opinion. He squelched the small part of his mind that wanted to see an uninhibited Vorkosigan take the Commissioner to pieces. He couldn't allow it, and when he was sober Vorkosigan would thank him for it. But quarreling with a drunk man was never a good move, and heaven knew Vorkosigan had enough people hectoring him without Illyan making himself obnoxious as well.

Thinking fast, he moved to the table and poured out another generous measure of whatever gut-rot Vorkosigan had obtained, and a second smaller one for himself. If there was one thing everyone agreed on, it was that Vorkosigan was a lightweight, and Illyan estimated that he must be pretty near his limit already. "All right," he said. "But I'm not going in there sober."

Vorkosigan gave a harsh laugh. "Knew you were human, even with the wired brain." He took the glass Illyan passed him, and raised it. "To defeat!" Vorkosigan said.

Illyan had never toasted defeat before, but he obediently drank now. It took all his self-control not to choke. Whatever Vorkosigan was drinking, it was extremely powerful and had an awful cloying sweetness underneath the raw alcohol. He suspected it was the local bootleg version of Dendarii maple mead.

"What's on the agenda for tomorrow?" he asked Vorkosigan as he sipped the ersatz mead. He knew the answer, of course, but delay was the name of the game right now.

"Fucking Interstellar Judiciary again," Vorkosigan said bitterly. "We're Barrayarans, everyone knows we haven't signed up. Don't they know we're backwards savages who rape and massacre everyone we can find?" He poured himself another shot and swallowed it in a gulp. "I can't even get the Ministry of Finance to pay my men, what the fuck do they think _I_ can do about it? But they've sent this girl--woman, whatever--who smiles at you so sweetly and then slices you open with a rusty razor and stuffs fifty volumes of paperwork inside."

Illyan blinked at the mental image. "Oh. Wonderful," he managed.

Vorkosigan was in full spate now. "Barrayar could be so beautiful, if we'd all give up torturing each other to death. I almost wish--I almost wish... the Escobarans had had the men and the will to follow through. Chased through the wormhole, taken this place, freed Komarr, taken Barrayar herself, and forced us to change. We'd do so well as an Escobaran protectorate. Have you ever been there? It's glorious. Rich, peaceful, calm, beautiful... it must be wonderful, to be an Escobaran citizen."

Illyan had been to Escobar, but Vorkosigan didn't give him time to answer.

"You should arrest me for saying that," he went on. "Lock me up again. It would make your job a lot easier. Negri will want to know why you haven't when you report this conversation to him."

What Negri would want was so far from Illyan's awareness now that he couldn't think of an answer to that. It was just him here, to negotiate the path of his duty alone. Instead he took another sip of the vile mead and listened to Vorkosigan pick up the thread of his rant.

"Or we could have a revolution anyway. Ditch the Vor, ditch the whole idiotic system and run the empire like everyone else does. It's where we're headed in the end, anyone who's read the slightest bit of history has to see that. But so few people do pay attention to history." He took a gulp from the bottle and wiped its neck on his sleeve, then set it down too hard. "That way, the people who actually want to do politics could go into politics and the rest of us could get on with something quiet. And have a private life, God, an actual private life without knowing that we're signing our sons up to pain and misery before they're even born." He leaned against the table, staring into space, his speech slowing. "That's why she won't stay, you know. If I can start a revolution, maybe she'll come back. She'd marry Aral Kosigan, I think. And she's a soldier, you know. A real lady soldier. With a uniform. I always thought they'd be hard. Angry. I didn't know it was possible for someone like her to exist."

Illyan abruptly decided lovesick drunken maunderings were even worse than political tirades. Vorkosigan tried to move away from the table he'd been leaning against, but his knees buckled. Blandly, Illyan caught him and pushed him onto the edge of the bunk. Objective achieved. Some hint of this must have crossed his face, because Vorkosigan gave him a narrow-eyed look.

"You're a sneaky bastard," he observed. "All right. Make yourself useful, then, and pour me another."

There being no sense in defending himself, Illyan obeyed, made a little uncomfortable by Vorkosigan's gaze on him. He wasn't here to replace Ges Vorrutyer. Vorkosigan tossed the mead back and lay down on the bunk. "Are you sure I can't persuade you to assassinate the Commissioner for me? Or do some ImpSec thing to him. That shit-for-brains deserves it."

Illyan smiled weakly, hoping it was a joke. Vorkosigan closed his eyes, yawned hugely, and said, "You're definitely Negri's pupil." He yawned again. "God. I'm so tired..."

"Good night, sir," Illyan said after a few minutes. Vorkosigan opened his eyes briefly, gave him a slight nod.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

He fell asleep, and Illyan heaved a sigh of relief and returned for his own bunk. He'd saved them all a scene tonight, but tomorrow Vorkosigan's temper was going to be utterly vile. Perhaps their relief orders would come soon.

*

It was another month before Vorkosigan was recalled to Barrayar, once most of the troops had returned and the bulk of the paperwork was done. He hadn't got drunk again, somewhat to Illyan's surprise, though he had started to suffer from the ulcers that his file said were a recurring problem. That, at least, Illyan could call in the medics for. The rest seemed unfixable, and Illyan had followed, watched, listened and said little. He was mentioned by name in Vorkosigan's recall orders, reassurance at least that Negri hadn't completely forgotten him and left him to rot here.

They sat silently together in the small cabin on the fast courier, Vorkosigan still working through paperwork, Illyan, as ever, waiting in case something happened. Though it wasn't exactly likely on a fast courier. But there weren't a lot of other places to go on board and the crew were starting to get fed up with him pacing up and down, so he sat with Vorkosigan in motionless silence.

"Are we bugged?" Vorkosigan asked suddenly, looking up from his papers.

Illyan frowned at the question. "Sir..."

"Yes or no?"

After a moment's silence, Illyan took out a scanner and began to go over the cabin. He'd lost this virginity months ago now, what was one more round of shielding Vorkosigan from the world? "No," he said after five minutes' work. "It's clean."

Vorkosigan grunted, stacked up the flimsies in front of him, and turned to face Illyan. "Bothari," he said.

Illyan blinked. "Yes?" He kept his expression vague and neutral, though he was keenly curious about what Vorkosigan was thinking.

"I need your thoughts on what to do with him. We're keeping the story that it was Captain Naismith who killed Ges and that she also disabled Bothari, but even so there will be pressure to make him the scapegoat. Both from those who know the cover story--they'll cry cowardice, desertion, disloyalty, whatever--but more seriously, from Negri. He's going to want Bothari to vanish quietly. He knows too much."

Illyan could see it. Bothari knew why he and Vorkosigan had gone into Admiral Vorrutyer's cabin, knew what the Prince and Vorrutyer had been doing in the flagship, had been there through those days between Vorrutyer's death and Serg's, and whilst his brains had been pretty scrambled with drugs, there was no telling what he might piece together from his memories.

"He's still with Dr Lavalle now?" Illyan asked thoughtfully.

"Yeah. He's being sent back to Barrayar next week. He's been treated for the worst of what Ges did to him, at least everything that Lavalle can fix, but beyond that... God knows. It took nine months last time for me to get him functional again."

Illyan was silent for a moment. It was very easy to work out what Negri would do. Bothari was expendable: he was half-crazed, had murdered his superior officer, had tortured prisoners and raped them. After so many dead through his plotting, Negri wouldn't even blink at a quiet disappearance like this. And nobody would miss Bothari. Illyan shivered a little.

Nobody, that was, except Admiral Lord Vorkosigan. Who, watching Illyan's face, said, "Let me be plain. If it comes to it, I will make public the reasons why he should be shown mercy."

Illyan could picture it. He didn't think Vorkosigan was actually threatening to talk about the secret they hadn't discussed, but the rest of it--the sexual games, the torture, Ges, the Prince--would be explosive enough. "I'm not disagreeing with your wishes, sir," he said mildly. "But ... there's no possible way for Bothari to come out of this smelling of roses."

"Alive is enough. And not publicly disgraced. I owe him--my House owes him... more than I can repay."

Illyan considered the options. "I think... I think you'd do best to go down a medical route." A familiar ache was beginning behind his eyes as he thought it through. "He'd have to be discharged, of course, but the fundamental problem is that Captain Negri isn't going to be happy to let Bothari go walking around knowing what he knows. But there are ways around this." The headache was getting worse. "After I had the chip put in, once it was clear I was going to be stable, Negri wanted to know if--if it was possible for me to forget things, in case I ever saw things I shouldn't. He tested a new form of memory-suppression therapy on me, one that was supposed to be extremely effective." He inhaled, exhaled. Vorkosigan was frowning, not, Illyan thought, at him but at the story. "It didn't work on me, and they undid it... mostly." And he'd learned how to put certain memories on the chip behind a block of his own, to avoid accessing them accidentally and enduring the resulting migraines. "I can't see any reason why it wouldn't work on Bothari, though. And it's ImpSec doctors who know how to do it, all highly cleared, there wouldn't be a problem there."

"I see." Vorkosigan's eyes on him were keen. "It sounds unpleasant."

"It is, sir, but better than being killed."

"And you think Negri will buy this?"

"It's a solution that keeps the whole situation as quiet as possible, that avoids letting anyone uncleared loose with dangerous secrets in their heads and that won't cause a public stir. I think he would accept it."

Vorkosigan gave a nod and turned back to his papers, leaving Illyan to sit and contemplate. Once, he thought, he would never have told someone how to get what he wanted out of Negri. He could remember it, the images of how he had once been perfectly clear on his chip. But too much had changed now.

Three more days to Barrayar, and then he would have to make his report to Negri, would have to make a full confession of everything he had seen and done. What would happen to him after that, he had no idea.

*

Three days later, Lord Vorkosigan sat in the library at Vorkosigan House in his shirtsleeves, already making inroads on his third measure of brandy. They had landed at mid-morning, and since then Vorkosigan had been debriefed by the General Staff, given them his resignation and started drinking. Illyan had heard nothing. He was dreading making his report, but at the same time, he hoped Negri would summon him soon. He'd seen Vorkosigan at his best; he didn't want to watch him fall apart. It was all over now, war and assassination together; there was no longer any need for Illyan here and nothing he could do. If he were honest, it was that bleak helplessness that frustrated him the most.

But until Negri sent him word, he sat in another armchair, also sipping brandy in a more measured fashion and wondering if there was any point trying to persuade Vorkosigan not to refill his glass for the fourth time in half an hour. After Vorkosigan had squelched the five different topics of conversation he had tried to bring up--and asking a man clearly bent on alcoholism what plans he had for his retired life hadn't been a good idea anyway--he had sat in silence. It was not, after all, as though Vorkosigan's behaviour was a puzzle to him.

In the corridor outside he heard voices: one of the servants, admitting someone to the house. Illyan sat up alertly, but Vorkosigan ignored them until the door of the library opened.

"Lord and Lady Vorpatril to see you, my lord."

A spark of interest flickered in Vorkosigan's eye. "Well, don't keep them standing in the hall."

The servant bowed and a moment later the couple entered. Illyan automatically rose, and with a lurch Vorkosigan did the same.

"Alys. Padma. Come and sit down. Have you met Lieutenant Illyan? He's my spy. Damn good spy, actually."

Illyan exchanged salutes with the somewhat nonplused Captain Vorpatril and found himself presented with Lady Vorpatril's hand to kiss. With a sudden moment of panic--he was not accustomed to being presented to terrifyingly elegant Vor ladies--he bowed over her fingers and murmured something polite, hoping his awkwardness didn't show.

"The conquering hero," Captain Vorpatril said, smiling widely at Vorkosigan. "Why are you drinking here by yourself? You wouldn't have to buy your own drinks at the Broken Sword for the next month; practically every other toast last night was for you."

"Conquering hero?" Vorkosigan echoed. "Has it slipped their notice that Escobar was a defeat?"

Illyan and Captain Vorpatril both flinched at his tone. Lady Alys said, "I think people need a hero all the more because of that."

"Well, they'll have to find someone else."

That blighted the conversation for a moment, before Lady Alys said, "Haven't I seen you at the Residence, Lieutenant?"

"I was assigned to the Emperor's personal service for a time, my lady."

"Ezar's vid recorder," Vorkosigan said parenthetically. Perhaps thinking that this was an insult, Lady Alys ignored it.

"And now you've got Aral," Vorpatril said. "My condolences." He grinned at Illyan. It was strange to see so open a smile on that face, with its resemblance to Vorkosigan's, and Illyan smiled slightly in return.

Vorkosigan sat up. "So, let me get you a drink," he offered, waving his hand vaguely at the servant, who hurried out.

Captain Vorpatril looked sharply at Vorkosigan, then smiled. "Well, it might not be fair, since Alys can't have one at the moment." His smile widened. "We thought you should be the first to know. We're going to have a son."

Vorkosigan grinned back. "Then we must drink to your health, Alys, you can't grudge us that."

"We decided it was time," Vorpatril said. His face went blank. "Once we heard the first report of what had happened at Escobar."

Vorkosigan gave an ambiguous grunt, and Illyan considered Captain Vorpatril's meaning. He looked at Lady Alys, who was nodding agreement. A dynastic play, Illyan supposed, or else an awareness of what Serg's inheritance would have meant for everyone in High Vor circles. Captain Vorpatril's family had all been killed by Yuri; he wouldn't want to bring children into the world only to have the same thing happen, as it undoubtedly would have under Serg.

The servant returned with more glasses and a drinks trolley, and Vorkosigan raised his glass in a toast to the forthcoming baby.

"M'father will be thrilled at the news. He's about given up expecting me to do my duty and give him a grandson."

"You should visit us, now that you're going to be spending more time in Vorbarr Sultana. I know several women who are very keen to meet you." Illyan recognised the gleam of a devoted matchmaker in Lady Vorpatril's eyes, but he flinched at Vorkosigan's edged response.

" _No._ " He swallowed the rest of his brandy, then, at Lady Vorpatril's injured expression and Captain Vorpatril's narrowed eyes, he added, "I'd be charmed to visit you, Alys, don't mistake me. But don't bother introducing me to all your friends. I doubt I'd be much fun for any of them."

Recovering from the slight, Lady Vorpatril said smoothly, "A quiet dinner, then. Padma is telling me I have to take things gently at the moment anyway, so that would be lovely."

The conversation ran more easily after that, and Captain Vorpatril even managed to win a laugh from Vorkosigan with a lengthy anecdote about some cadets he'd encountered on a training exercise. But Vorkosigan continued to drink. This time he did not start a political rant, but became increasingly silent, until the Vorpatrils could see that it was time to leave.

"Simon'll see you out," Vorkosigan said, not attempting to rise from his chair. "I'll come to dinner whenever you want, Alys."

Illyan led the guests out. In the corridor, whilst the porter was sending the Vorpatrils' car round, Captain Vorpatril turned to Illyan.

"What happened to him at Escobar?" he asked in a low voice. "I know Aral and his drinking. Was it Ges?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss Escobar, sir," Illyan said blandly, but he was pleased at the question. Vorkosigan had friends here, who might be able to hold him back from self-destruction. He did not, therefore, turn away, signalling the end of the subject, but waited for Vorpatril's response.

"But—well, you're ImpSec, you must know all about him and Ges. Is he upset over Ges' death?"

"I don't think that is what troubles him." Illyan paused. He knew it was quite impossible to explain the reason he had deduced for Vorkosigan's distress. Perhaps Vorpatril would accept a different bait? "We lost a great many men at Escobar," he offered.

"Aral's lost men before. He does take it badly, but not like that." Vorpatril sighed. "You were with him for the whole thing, weren't you? Are you going to continue with him?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Hmph." Vorpatril evidently saw the uselessness of attempting to question an ImpSec agent, and only said, "Well, if you do I expect we'll see you again."

Lady Vorpatril, who had been following their conversation with close attention, added, "In the meantime, please look after him, Lieutenant." Her eyes on him were shrewd.

Illyan gave a little bow. "I'll do my best, milady."

She nodded to him, took Captain Vorpatril's arm and they went out to their car. Illyan returned to Lord Vorkosigan. He was slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, and for a moment Illyan thought he had finally reached the unconsciousness he sought. But Vorkosigan's eyes slitted open and focused on him.

"Ah. Padma been pumping you for what's wrong with me?"

Illyan perched on the chair opposite. "Yes, sir." He did not offer further details, though a small voice inside him wondered what Vorkosigan would do if he explained that he knew exactly what was wrong.

"Never changes. Used to be Ges he'd try to get information out of." Vorkosigan took another sip of brandy. "Poor sodding bastard." Padma or Ges? Illyan wondered. Ges, probably.

"And I'm not 'sir' any more," Vorkosigan added after a while. "Resigned." He refilled his glass, spilling brandy on the table.

There were more voices in the hallway, and Illyan grimaced. Surely not more guests? But it was Count Vorkosigan who entered the room. Illyan rose, but Vorkosigan merely stared at his father through bleary eyes and said, "Oh. Thought you were in the country."

"I just got back." Count Vorkosigan surveyed his son. "So. You've resigned."

"That's right. I've done ... all I'm going to do, now. It's over."

The Count looked at the bottle, at Vorkosigan's half-focused eyes and boneless slump, and Illyan saw a flicker of concern pass over his face. "I see," he said. "And you're not celebrating with your officers?"

"They're all dead," Vorkosigan said leadenly. "Rulf died. And Korabik. And Aristede."

This time the Count's wince was more obvious. He seated himself opposite, waved Illyan back down and poured himself a glass of brandy. Illyan sympathised with the Count's dismay. The Count had seen his son fall into a bottle like this before.

"The Prince and Ges Vorrutyer as well," the Count said after a pause.

Illyan watched Vorkosigan worriedly. In this state, he might reveal anything to his father. Though it was possible the Count, as one of Ezar's closest friends, already knew the whole story. But Vorkosigan's only answer was to drain his glass.

The Count sipped from his own brandy and gazed at his son with the air of an interrogator trying to choose between his subject's many obvious weak spots. Vorkosigan grimaced.

"Think I'll go to bed," he said. "Simon, give me a hand."

"Aral--" the Count began in an oddly diffident voice, leaning forward a little.

"It's over," Vorkosigan said harshly. "It's all over and I've finished my service at last."

"In that case," the Count returned, "I'll have some jobs for you in the District. Tomorrow." He paused, then mercifully added, "In the afternoon."

"As you wish, sir," Vorkosigan said. "Simon..."

Illyan hauled him up. "G'night, father," Vorkosigan added, letting Illyan drag him from the room. "Got to get away from him," he muttered, more to himself than to Illyan, once they were outside. "I'm not in the mood for lectures..."

Vorkosigan was heavy. Illyan got him up the stairs somehow, then into his bedroom. Vorkosigan's mood shifted as they entered, and he looked directly at Illyan. "Been a pretty crappy job for you, haven't I?" he said. "Sorry..."

Illyan shook his head in rapid, absolute denial. "I ... no, sir. It hasn't," he said.

Vorkosigan made a lopsided gesture like a commander acknowledging a salute. Then he passed out.

Illyan nearly regretted his denial as he got Vorkosigan to bed. Automatically, he filled a glass of water and set it nearby. There was a packet of painkillers in the washroom as well, but Illyan examined the label closely before putting them with the water. Taking an overdose of them would not be fatal, only mildly unpleasant. He doubted Vorkosigan was the overdosing type—'accidents' with ordnance or vehicles seemed more his line, if he didn't simply drink himself to death—but he didn't want to take any risks. His beeper sounded and he hastily withdrew, though Vorkosigan was now sleeping so heavily it seemed unlikely that a whole regiment of beepers could wake him.

It was Negri, crisp and stern as always. "Lieutenant, you can leave Lord Vorkosigan now. Report in here as soon as possible."

Illyan swallowed. "Yes, sir."

The comm went dead. Illyan straightened slowly and began to make his way downstairs. At least, he thought, he wouldn't have to deal with a severely hungover Vorkosigan tomorrow. His mind went automatically over what Vorkosigan might be doing tomorrow, in preparation, then stopped himself. He didn't have to do that any more. It was over. He would be getting back to his real work.

If he survived this report.

Illyan located his kit, left a message with the porter explaining his departure, and called up a vehicle from the ImpSec pool to transport him. It was strange to ride in the ground-car alone, to sign himself in to ImpSec HQ as normal, to be able to stop and exchange greetings with the duty sergeant, and he kept glancing over his shoulder for Vorkosigan, then catching himself.

Negri was alone in his office, a familiar hypospray on his desk. Not fast-penta, of course--he'd had the allergy even before getting the chip--but a specially formulated hypnotic, to force Ezar's vid-recorder to disgorge what it knew without interference from Illyan's conscious mind. Illyan stood at attention in front of Negri's desk, and extended his left wrist silently.

The hiss of the hypospray seemed very loud. It worked rapidly, and Illyan felt as if his mind was floating away, hovering around the ceiling watching, unable to interfere. _I cannot edit my report_ , he had told Vorkosigan, and it was true. Negri made sure of that.

"Sit down," Negri said. "The Emperor desires me to hear your report." He stated the time and date for Illyan to start.

Illyan began to speak, his lips and tongue moving by themselves and his mind choosing words on its own. Perhaps he really was a vid recorder, the part of his mind floating above thought dreamily. Negri sat leaning back in his chair, listening, sometimes stopping him to skip over lengthy passages with little content, sometimes asking him to repeat something or clarify some point. After several hours they came to the story of Prince Serg and the ensign. Negri's eyes narrowed as Illyan recited the methods he had used to extract Vorkosigan from trouble, and he frowned at Illyan's description of investigating the question of Elena Visconti.

"Repeat the orders I gave you before you departed, Lieutenant," Negri said sternly.

Illyan did so. The part of his mind that floated on the ceiling felt like screaming. _She was being tortured. All part of your grand plan, was it?_ he tried to demand as his lips went on smoothly in obedience to Negri's orders, "'Vorkosigan is not your commanding officer'."

"Indeed," Negri said, his voice very dry. "Continue."

Illyan went on for an endless time, through his feud with the Prince, the story of Vorrutyer's death, the concealment of Naismith and Bothari. He could not conceal his own complicity in Vorkosigan's intentions, and even the part of his mind above had no desire to. Negri's face was unreadable. But when he came to the description of Vorkosigan's strange behaviour concerning the Betan plasma mirrors after he had taken command of the fleet, Negri sat up abruptly.

"Stop," he said.

Illyan fell silent.

"That's enough." Negri opened a desk drawer and pulled out a second hypospray. The antagonist. He made a gesture, and Illyan rose unsteadily and again held out his wrist. Slowly, the strange compulsion to speak left him, and he took a deep breath. His throat was hoarse and sore, he felt dizzy and sick and his head ached. He focused on Negri. _Your plot has been carried out,_ he thought bleakly.

Negri looked back at him. "You have made some ... deductions, concerning the nature of your mission?" he said.

Illyan nodded. Now that he didn't have to speak, he didn't particularly wish to. Especially about this, with Negri.

"Nothing will ever be confirmed or denied," Negri said. "Wild theories from junior officers will be treated as just that--as fantasy."

"Sir," Illyan said.

To his surprise, Negri nodded for him to sit down again, then studied him thoughtfully for a while.

"You were very fortunate," Negri said after a long digestive silence. "You disobeyed your orders and failed to exercise sufficient control over Lord Vorkosigan. If it had not been for Sergeant Bothari and a remarkable amount of good luck, everything would have been ruined. You committed mutiny and assisted in high treason, in intent if not in outcome."

Illyan was silent. He knew all this. He wondered whether Vorkosigan would consider taking him as an Armsman along with Bothari, if he didn't wind up in a military prison. He was not at all sure he wanted to continue serving Negri after this.

"I am promoting you to Commander." Two plastic rectangles appeared in Negri's hand, and he pushed them across the desk to Illyan. "Your pay grade increase will be backdated to the departure of the invasion campaign. Your new command will be Project Guillotine; here are the details." A deceptively slender data disk joined the rank tabs.

Illyan reached out to take them hesitantly, not quite certain he wasn't still dreaming. Perhaps Negri had given him a hallucinogen instead of the antagonist? But as the rank tabs were cool and solid under his fingers as he inserted them into his collar. Somehow, something he'd done had won Negri's approval. The idea that Negri might approve of his wayward junior officer's choices, might approve of his partisan behaviour after ordering neutrality from him, baffled Illyan. There was something more going on here, but he was too exhausted to think it through.

"And Lord Vorkosigan?" he said, the words seeming to come almost automatically, the first thing he could think to ask. "What will happen to him?"

"We shall see. You may analyse the reports by his surveillance team, since you are interested, and report your findings to me. Now you may have twenty-six hours leave. Get some sleep."

More work. But Illyan couldn't regret it, under the circumstances. Then Negri dismissed him with a nod, a faint, unsettling smile on his lips.

Illyan walked slowly out of the office. The day-shift was just coming on duty, a familiar bustle. Illyan looked around ImpSec. It seemed he wasn't done with this place yet, or with Negri. And not with Vorkosigan either. About that at least, he was glad.


	15. Chapter 15

Vorkosigan's drinking continued over the following weeks. Illyan read through all the reports from the surveillance team, first with dismay, then with weary resignation. But he had little time to dwell on it, because Project Guillotine involved a tremendous amount of planning. The Escobar invasion had destroyed and discredited Vorrutyer and the Prince, leaders of the centralising hawks on Barrayar, but many of their structures were still intact and would, in time, undoubtedly find new leaders and begin again. So the Emperor was cleaning out the rest of his government, and a steady stream of ministers and officials were developing chronic illnesses that required a long rest in the country or being discovered in unfortunate sex scandals, but there was one enemy remaining that required ImpSec's special attention: the Ministry of Political Education. Killing Grishnov and devastating his Ministry were the stated goals of Guillotine, and Illyan had access to more of ImpSec than he'd ever worked with before as he planned the methods for this purging. He immersed himself in the problems, trying not to think of anything else. He found being back at his real job both a relief and a struggle, enjoying the work but at the same time feeling oddly cut off and adrift, outside Vorkosigan's orbit.

When he was summoned abruptly away from his desk by Negri to attend on the Emperor, he assumed it was something related to Guillotine, since Negri had already relayed all the pertinent parts of Illyan's account of the Escobar expedition to the Ezar. He entered the Green Room where Negri and the Emperor already sat in conference, and swallowed. He hadn't seen the Emperor since before Escobar, and the change in him was shocking. His skin was translucent, his hands trembling, his breath noisy and fast. With Serg dead and little Gregor only four, they would be needing a Regent very soon. He understood now the pain he'd seen in Negri's eyes whenever Ezar was mentioned.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Commander," said Ezar blandly as he entered. His voice at least was as stern and cool as always.

Illyan bowed.

"The Emperor requires your thoughts concerning Admiral Vorkosigan," Negri said.

Illyan blinked at him. "Certainly, sire."

"Is he still trying to drink himself to death?" Ezar's voice was calm, dispassionate. Illyan strove for a similar calm in his reply.

"He generally spends one day drinking, the next being ill and the day after that making himself useful to his father. He has made three suicide gestures so far, one of which was nearly successful."

"Oh?"

"He went sailing one night, drunk, capsized the boat and was close to drowning by the time my men got to him." Illyan frowned. He'd been off-duty that evening, and had been frantically furious with the sergeant who had been leading the ImpSec surveillance team, though in all honesty there wasn't a lot more he could have done short of arresting Vorkosigan before he got in the boat.

"He's gone on benders like this before," Negri offered. "Twice, in fact. Both times he pulled out of it again in the end."

"Everyone gets drunk at Kyril Island." Ezar shook his head and looked to Illyan. "Besides, if one of his gestures, as you call them, gets out of hand, it doesn't matter whether he pulls out of it in the end or not. We need him alive and sober. You've been observing him closely, Commander. What do you suggest?"

If I knew, Illyan wanted to say, don't you think I'd have tried it by now? Instead he said, "So far it has only become worse over time. The suicide gestures have become more serious and the drinking is beginning to affect his health. None of his friends have had any ability to—to make a difference." To help him? Comfort him? Order him to stop wallowing in misery? None of those sounded like quite the right thing. Tell him that allowing his men and his friends to go to their deaths without lifting a finger to help them is fine so long as the Emperor orders it? Surely the Emperor must understand what pain it was that Vorkosigan drank to forget? After all, he had connived at the killing of his own son. But Ezar's face was still, unmoved. Illyan felt cold.

"I had hopes of that Betan woman. Naismith, wasn't it?" the Emperor said. "What happened to her?"

"She returned to Beta Colony. Lord Vorkosigan asked her to marry him, but she refused. She appeared fond of him, but did not wish to live on Barrayar."

"Can we get her back?" Ezar looked at Negri. "Betan security is shoddy. Surely you can arrange something?"

"I don't recommend that, sire," Illyan said at once. Negri gave him an irritated look, Ezar a more calculating one.

"Why not?"

"If it's to help Lord Vorkosigan, she must come of her own accord. And," he paused, searching for words, "I would not advise attempting to coerce Captain Naismith in any way. I do not think there is a man in ImpSec who is a match for her."

Negri's brows rose. "You could go yourself."

"I include myself in that assessment, sir."

"I grow more convinced than ever that I must meet this Captain Naismith." The Emperor frowned at Negri. "Perhaps you can convey her news of Lord Vorkosigan's unhappy situation, appeal to her, ah, womanly nature."

"That might have more chance of success," Illyan said, not altogether hopefully.

"Hm! We'll have to think about that." Ezar smiled slightly. "Only one way to handle women, you know. They're contrary little things. Got to convince her she can't ever have him back..." He stared into the distance, then nodded dismissal to Illyan.

"Thank you, Commander," Negri said.

Illyan was left wondering exactly how Ezar thought he could manoeuvre Captain Naismith into returning to Barrayar. Somehow, he didn't think it was beyond Ezar's power.

*

Smoke from the groundcars burning at the front gate was starting to drift towards them. The gatehouse was on fire too, and there were raucous cheers from the crowd as the old emblem given by Emperor Dorca came crashing down. _Dorca's Hands_. That had been the name of the forerunners of the Political Officers, as ImpSec had once been _Dorca's Eyes_.

Illyan didn't cheer. Dorca's Hands had saved Barrayar twice: once when they had been created to exert Imperial authority over the counts' armies, and again when they had borne much of the work of organising the resistance against the Ceta occupation. Grishnov had by all accounts learned his trade alongside General Count Vorkosigan, though they'd become enemies in the past decade. He knew what the Ministry of Political Education had become, what Grishnov had become, what they had done, what they had wanted to do. And he was happy to pull the trigger on the corrupt monster that had once been a hero of Barrayar. But he wasn't going to cheer as he did it.

Around him, men were shouting slogans his propaganda team had written, slogans about Escobar and the war in four languages. He heard some new ones mixed in, which was gratifying, proof that the destructive process he'd begun had taken on a life of its own. The Ministry would not survive the night.

The mob was pressed together here, and he was glad that his shoulders were jostled not by the inflamed citizenry but by his own men. For all his efforts, he knew there would be casualties before this operation was over, and he had a healthy desire not to be amongst them.

"Red Squad, update," he murmured into his discreet comm.

"We're at the gates, sir. It's going fine. Should be inside in the next few minutes."

"Good. Keep it up."

His eyes moved over the crowd. Even though he'd studied crowd psychology and propaganda, he could scarcely believe that his operation was succeeding. Green Squad had been hard at work for weeks, spreading rumours, encouraging angry voices, putting up posters and leaving flyers around, prodding the news media, setting the rockets in place for this fireworks show. Now the spark was racing towards the touchpaper.

"Look out!" A hand pushed him aside, and a moment later a stone hurtled past where his head had been. Illyan replayed the last few seconds on his chip, saw the stone, traced it back and identified the thrower. There were cries not far off from the unfortunate person it had hit.

"Thanks." He nodded to Sergeant Scott and spoke again into his pickup, broadcasting to all the squads. "Grishnov's got some men out here too. They can't hope to stop this, but they'll try to pick us off. Keep alert."

A series of acknowledgements sounded simultaneously; only by using his chip was he able to confirm that every squad leader had responded. How did men manage without a memory chip to help them keep track of things? His squad moved nearer to the gates of the Ministry of Political Education.

"All right, sir, we're in," came the next report. "Blew in the side door B-3."

"Good work. Try not to let too many civilians get in. We'll be right behind you."

He had four burly commandos at the edge of their little group, and they were slowly thrusting a route through the crowd towards the walls of the Ministry. For a moment a particularly violent and enraged portion of the mob seemed likely to split them up, but Scott made a sharp gesture and they closed tightly about Illyan.

He had never commanded anything this big before. A month of planning, full of meetings, reports and assessments, reconnaissance, research and groundwork had gone into making this, with help from almost every department and little secret team ImpSec contained. Negri had given him a free hand and access to all sorts of resources Illyan had barely known existed before. He knew ImpSec better now than he ever had before.

He listened as Blue Squad reported they had also entered the Ministry, this time through a broken window and were placing some tangle-fields to prevent further entry. Minimising civilian casualties had been one of his priorities in the planning: since the ultimate aim was to burn down the Ministry, it would not do to have too many unprepared people inside when they let off the charges. Once they were inside, they would have to work fast.

"Here we go, sir." Sergeant Scott had steered them towards their planned entrance point, and Illyan snapped his mind back to the immediate task. A group of men shouting to each other in Greek had succeeded in battering down the outer gate of the complex and people were clambering over the bent ironwork and broken bricks to get near their target. Illyan's squad pushed past.

The Ministry had not yet given up the fight, and there were snipers at the windows above, armed with stunners for the most part. A few of the earliest attackers lay stunned around the courtyard, but there were too many now for that tactic to work, and the Ministry's defence was thoroughly confused by now with the spreading flames and the multiple points of attack. And, of course, the fact that nobody was answering their calls for reinforcement.

"Disperse," Illyan murmured into his bug. This was the tricky bit. In the current climate the Ministry men would not quite dare to kill unarmed civilians protesting at their gates, even if they were protesting violently, but if the snipers identified Illyan's squad as ImpSec they would break out the nerve disruptors at once. Naturally, none of the men in any of the squads were in uniform, though their civilian clothes were made from combat-grade fabrics and concealed a number of useful devices. Their ability to blend into the crowds was an essential part of the plan. He shouted some of the slogans in Greek and his men gradually moved apart, advancing on the inner door obliquely. Scott stuck to him stubbornly, but Illyan couldn't really blame him. Protecting the overall commander of the operation was one of the duties of Black Squad, and whilst Illyan had a lieutenant with Green Squad ready and able to take over if necessary, he wanted to see this out himself.

"Got it." The triumphant tones of one of his men—Andreevitch, his chip supplied, along with all Andreevitch's relevant personal data, which he pushed impatiently aside—echoed through his earbug, and he saw the lock was blasted off the inner door. The squad moved swiftly and within moments were inside, two men having stunned the guards. Illyan moved in the centre of the squad.

"You know the route," he said, fighting down the adrenalin rush of their entrance. "If you can catch anyone to fast-penta, so much the better."

Reports were coming in steadily. Now that they were inside, he pulled out a more sophisticated command headset and used it to filter them. No sign of Grishnov on the top floors. No sign that he'd gone out any of the known exits. One man seriously hurt in Red Squad, evacuation being arranged, a walking wounded in Green, a number of civilians down amongst the crowd, status unknown.

Their primary goal was finding Grishnov, as well as retrieving important files and trashing as much of the Ministry as they could. The crowd would help destroy the building, but no mob of untrained rioters would be able to find and kill Grishnov. Knowing what he did about the point of the Escobar invasion, Illyan saw this as his half of the operation. Vorkosigan had seen to it that the Prince was killed and his faction discredited; now it was Illyan's job to destroy the other half of that dangerous pair. He had, he thought, been given the easier, and cleaner, job by far.

But to find Grishnov, they had to be quick. His intelligence had been as certain as possible that Grishov had been in the building at the start of this, and he'd had men watching every exit. Now the net was closing, and Grishnov was trapped. Trapped, and dangerous. The less time he had to prepare, the better.

His point men were exchanging fire with a team of defenders at the head of the stairwell. Scott jerked his head, and someone tossed a stun-grenade into the mêlée. It went off with no more sound than a gentle 'pop', and the nearest defenders slumped down. The thrower staggered to his knees too. That was the trouble with using it at close range—there was always some backwash. Scott moved instantly to cover him, and the defenders were forced back down the stairs. Another man, Bretten, heaved the half-stunned man to his feet and they joined Illyan in the centre of the squad.

Cautiously, they went down to the basement level and fanned out into the wide corridor.

"Sir, look at this." Andreevitch was shining his handlight on a small holoplate inset in the wall at the foot of the stairs. "It's the real plan of this place. With all the bits that we didn't have in the briefing."

Illyan strode over. The map was detailed and appeared complete. He called up the approximate plan he had used to plan the operation, and compared the two.

"Good work, corporal," he said, still assimilating the new data. "Take a holo of it, please, and transmit it to the other squads." He counted exits, and found two that had not been on their plan.

"Red squad. Add the exit via the inner courtyard to your route. We"ll take the sub-basement one."

"Yes, sir."

Illyan recognised their location now. Just along here was the cell he had collected Vorkosigan from at the start of this mission. Full circle.

"Sir," called the point man. "Sir, there are people in here!"

In the cells, Illyan realised. Shit. He had missed that out of his planning, he had no spare men or equipment or plan for evacuating the Ministry's assorted political prisoners. And it was going to delay everything. Illyan grimaced. Delay or not, he couldn't abandon them to burn to death.

"Scott," he said sharply. "Arrange an evacuation for the prisoners. To a secure location—just because the Ministry is holding them doesn't mean they're innocent." Though it's not a bad guide…. "And hurry."

"I'm on it, sir."

Illyan was briefly distracted by a vision of Vorkosigan in the cells here—of Elena—of the Escobarans in the prison camp. This time perhaps it would be simpler. He looked in as the cell Vorkosigan had occupied was opened. The man inside didn't look up, didn't respond to his rescuer, though he did get up and walk obediently out when ordered. Illyan looked away from the man's blank eyes.

Scott was coping with his increased work with the efficiency Illyan expected of his sergeants, and soon all the political prisoners were rounded up and being escorted under guard out of the building to the medical post a block away. Reports were coming in--the entire two two floors were secure now, and Grishnov wasn't there. Red Squad was in a nasty firefight on the first floor, but the lieutenant in charge didn't think Grishnov was there either. Seconds ticked in Illyan's head. They'd covered all the known exits. Grishnov was in here somewhere. Unless he had his own private escape route, something nobody else knew about. Soon he'd have to make the call, and the longer he waited, the more civilians would be in the building when they set the firebombs.

Consulting the new map of the building again, Illyan noticed a small unlabelled office just past the prison area, and sent his men forward to investigate.

"This is serious shit," the point man was saying as he came out. "You need to see this, sir."

It was clearly one of Grishnov's private offices. Illyan pounced on the console and began to vacuum out its files himself. They were all encrypted multiple times over, a nice little exercise for the cryptology department. Two of his men went through the rest of the office swiftly and methodically.

"Good find," Illyan said to his men, passing on the data crystals as he went back into the corridor. "Get that all bagged and stored. This is important stuff."

"Yes, sir."

There was a flurry of activity as everything was stowed away. Grishnov's files were second in importance only to Grishnov himself. Illyan suspected from the location that these would be records of the prisoner interrogations, all the dark secrets Grishnov had learned over the years. Or made up--determining fact from fiction would keep his analysts busy for a long time.

A shout of alarm spun him around in time to see their quarry, Grishnov himself, emerging from around the corner and heading towards the office, his finger already squeezing the trigger of a nerve disruptor pointed at Illyan's head. So, Illyan thought, he is still in here. Everything seemed to slow, the noise of his men receding and the sound of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. He began to duck, as if his nervous system could be faster than a disruptor beam, raising his own weapon, targeting and firing with reflexes trained over hundreds of hours of simulator and live-fire drills. There was a flash of movement, the hiss of the energy beams and the hideous sizzle of burnt flesh.

But there was no pain. Illyan stared stupidly ahead at Grishnov's falling body. He shot Grishnov again, unnecessarily, as he fell. Then he stared at his feet, where the young corporal Andreevitch was still twitching in his death-agony. His chip replayed the last two seconds, very slowly, more vivid than the world before his eyes. The shout of alarm had been Andreevitch's. Illyan zoomed in on his face, first terrified, then angry as he saw where Grishnov was aiming, finally a curious blank, as if acting without thinking at all. He had flung himself in front of Illyan and absorbed the blast without impeding Illyan's returning fire.

"Sir, are you hurt?"

Scott's sharp voice in his ear jolted him back to reality. "No," he said. He began to run forward to Grishnov's body, Scott with him on the alert for more trouble. But Grishnov had been alone.

Illyan stared down at Grishnov's body, thinking of Vorrutyer and Serg. The third, most shadowy member of that little triumvirate was dead now. He knelt to search the body, quick and efficient despite his numb mind. Scott was ready with an evidence bag, and into it Illyan put a set of data chips and the rest of the contents of Grishnov's pockets.

"All right," he said. "On to the next stage." He switched to broadcast to the other squad leaders. "Implement phase three. Make sure you leave nobody behind, then set the firebombs. Grishnov's dead."

*

Coming down off a combat mission was always difficult, but Illyan had never before realised that this difficulty grew exponentially worse the further up the chain of command you stood. He had written his report, then reviewed the other squad leaders' reports, then written another report summarising all them for Negri, who, he supposed, had written yet another report for the Emperor. He had handed out commendations and criticisms, debriefed his officers and eased everyone else into their downtime after the operation. And most importantly, visited the injured and contacted the families of the dead. By the evening of the following day, Illyan felt he had hit bottom. Most of the work was done and he could have gone off duty, but he knew that if he went home he would sit and stare morosely into the night. Instead he looked at his regular work in-file and saw the reports of the most recent tails on Lord Vorkosigan. It was one of his nights for drinking. On impulse, Illyan decided to look him up and see if he wanted any company whilst he got drunk.

The first report back said that he had gone out wandering around the caravanserai. Illyan shrugged into his jacket, checked his weapons and went out to join the squad.

The back alleys of the city suited Illyan's mood perfectly. He suspected they suited Vorkosigan equally well. The looming old buildings towered over him as he walked a little way ahead of one of the teams, following Vorkosigan out of a seedy bar and into the caravanserai.

He wasn't sure whether it was good acting or the alcohol, but Vorkosigan seemed to be unaware of his ImpSec escort as he wandered away from the lights and traffic of the modern city. Illyan made sure his weapons were easy to hand. Drunk, well-dressed and not in uniform, Vorkosigan seemed to be a perfect target for any of the many gangs and thugs who had a long-running battle with the municipal guard for superiority in this part of the city. Charting Vorkosigan's probable direction, Illyan dispatched two ImpSec teams to clear his path.

Since it was that sort of night, Vorkosigan took a random turn away from the safely prepared routes and headed for an uncleared area, taking gulps from his flask as he walked. Illyan and his patrol closed as near as he dared to Vorkosigan, but having read in detail the report from the last time Vorkosigan had taken exception to his ImpSec protector-guards, took care to avoid notice.

Ahead, a pair of young men were sitting on a doorstep. When Vorkosigan came into sight, they stood up. A moment later another pair joined them. Illyan sighed as Vorkosigan's steps accelerated. Did he want the chance to fight with someone, no holds barred, or did he want to be beaten up? Either way he would have to intervene.

He couldn't quite hear the words Vorkosigan exchanged with the men, but watched the body language. When it was clear that the talking was about to end, he signalled his men and they stepped out of cover as two of the thugs leapt at Vorkosigan.

The two hanging back saw them at once, saw the ImpSec insignia and the weapons aimed at them, and began to back away, then turned and fled. Vorkosigan was knocked to the ground by his attackers, and for a moment nobody could get a clear shot at either. Illyan began to run forward with his squad. One of the two attackers saw him then and began to scramble away, but was felled by a stunner beam from one of the patrol. The final attacker was still grappling with Vorkosigan, and Illyan's chip reeled out memories of unarmed combat practice aboard the invasion fleet flagship. He held up a hand for the patrol to wait, watched for his moment, and fired his stunner. The attacker slumped across Vorkosigan and lay motionless. Illyan waved back the rest of the patrol and approached as Vorkosigan staggered to his feet.

"Oh. You. I might have known."

Illyan continued towards him. It could be worse. At least Vorkosigan hadn't started off with a stream of invective this time. "It's my job," he answered after a moment, and Vorkosigan gave a short nod.

There was blood trickling down his face. The guards were not supposed to interfere more than necessary in what Vorkosigan chose to do, but letting him go his way with an unknown injury was not acceptable. Vorkosigan ran a hand over his eyes, then stared at the bloodsmears in surprise.

"Let me see, please, sir."

Vorkosigan stood still as Illyan ran careful fingers over his scalp until he found the cut. Though bleeding profusely, it was small. Not worth bothering a medic for. He took his handkerchief, folded it neatly into a pad and held it in place.

Vorkosigan looked down at his stunned assailant. "Couldn't you have let me have it out in a fair fight?" he demanded.

Illyan's glower was answer enough, and Vorkosigan sighed. "I'm retired now. All this haring around after me is just a waste of your time. How many men do you have out here tonight down all these alleys? I thought I saw one lot a while back."

"Twenty-three." Illyan's earbug was reporting the outcome of his nearest patrol's one-sided battle with the gang, and he stared vaguely at the clotting blood in Vorkosigan's hair until his ensign fell silent. He hoped he wouldn't have to involve anyone else. Vorkosigan's mood would not tolerate a squad of ImpSec men escorting him to his car.

Vorkosigan took a long drink from the flask. "I only rated a handful until I got back here. I suppose I should be flattered."

Illyan wondered if Vorkosigan could truly be ignorant of the ImpSec men who had been assigned to watch over him—and watch him—since Ezar had come to power, just as they watched all the contenders for the Imperium. But since his return from Escobar Vorkosigan's status had risen abruptly from the routine six-man team like that on Vorpatril and Emperor Dorca's other more distant descendants to this serious protection unit. Only the Emperor and his family were more thoroughly guarded. No wonder Vorkosigan was chafing.

He lifted the handkerchief a little and saw that the bleeding had slowed. A bit longer. Vorkosigan took another gulp from his flask.

"Are you going to arrest me now?" he asked.

"It would make my life much easier," Illyan retorted. "There are lots of other places in the city to go if you want a drink, without having to explore these stinking alleys."

Vorkosigan's lip twisted. "Not to mention that you wouldn't need twenty-three poor wretches to follow me around." He sighed. "All right, I'll go somewhere more comfortable. I don't suppose there are any more young toughs hanging around within a two-mile radius of this place by now."

"If there are I'll have someone's head," said Illyan frankly. "If you really want a fight I'll be happy to oblige. But not when you're drunk."

"How kind." Vorkosigan raised his flask, but Illyan shook his head. A flash of anger crossed Vorkosigan's face. "Damn it, Simon, you're still not my nanny."

"No, but I do have to accompany you to somewhere the car can meet us. You can get as drunk as you like once we're somewhere civilised. I might even join you. It's been a long day. But, if you must know, you're an absolute bitch to carry."

Vorkosigan barked a laugh. "My Armsmen are never that honest, not even Bothari. All right." He raised his free hand to his head. "I think you can leave off now."

Illyan put his bloodstained handkerchief back in his pocket and murmured a few words to his squad, and they began retracing their steps back to the wider roads. After a while Vorkosigan offered Illyan his flask.

"A long day, you said?"

Illyan took a cautious sip. It was maple mead, and burned his throat. "Started off with a next-of-kin visit," he said, the images flashing involuntarily before his mind before he realised this was probably not the best choice of conversational gambits. But Vorkosigan only gave an understanding grunt.

"From that mess yesterday?"

"Yes. The kid stepped in front of a nerve disruptor bolt. Aimed at me. Haven't ever had one like that before."

"Hell. Yes. I remember the first time that happened to me. Comes with command rank, often. It was a boarding party, if you'll believe it, hijackers. Why in hell they thought they could hijack a Barrayaran Imperial cruiser I can't imagine, and we killed them all so I never found out. But it was just the same thing. One of my ensigns, a quiet boy, not really cut out to be an officer, but he traded his life for mine."

This time Illyan did not stop him as he sipped from the flask, though Vorkosigan's steps were growing more unsteady. Let him have his anaesthetic. Illyan would have liked the same release, but knew it was impossible. No matter how drunk he was he never forgot anything. At least only his organic memory still held the smell of Andreevitch's seared skin; one day it would fade and be gone. He would never lose the sight.

"It was a success, though. The mission. At least the first part was." The memory of Grishnov falling dead still filled him with a fierce satisfaction.

"I've been avoiding the news," Vorkosigan said. "I know Grishnov was killed and the place burned down."

"The news doesn't have much of what happened anyway. The rioting got bad, afterwards, and some people were killed before the troops could calm things down."

Vorkosigan grunted and sipped again, and passed the flask over. Illyan accepted.

"We got the prisoners all out, though," he felt compelled to add after a minute. "All safe and on the mend now."

The look Vorkosigan shot him was something like pride, and Illyan straightened. No need to add whom he was imitating in this. He caught hold of Vorkosigan's arm as he lurched. Fortunately it wasn't far to where the car would meet them.

"It is good that they're gone," Vorkosigan said at last. "All of them," and Illyan knew he referred to Serg and his cronies as well as the purges taking place here. "And some good has come of it. Must come of it. But the cost…" He trailed off. It was as near as he had come to speaking of the great plot he had participated in.

"Yes." Illyan hesitated, then added, "I know." He dared say no more, but his eyes met Vorkosigan's. Vorkosigan made the catch, and his grip on Illyan's arm crushed muscle to bone.

They walked in silence to the car. As they got in, Vorkosigan said suddenly, "It's a nice night and this isn't empty yet." He held up the flask. "I don't think I'll head home yet. Come have a drink with me. Somewhere peaceful and quiet. Outside."

"Vorbarra Park," Illyan offered after a second's thought, interpreting Vorkosigan's intent easily. "It's always pleasant there."

Vorkosigan nodded, and Illyan instructed the driver, then sat beside Vorkosigan in the rear compartment. They rode through the dark streets in the silence of shared conspirators.

"Check the area, and then you can keep to outer-perimeter distance," Illyan told his squad when they arrived at the main gates to the park. "I don't think we'll have any trouble here."

Vorkosigan walked alongside Illyan through the archway with its garlands of roses into the park. There were a few lights on the main paths, and the moons were both in the sky. Illyan reached to his earbug and switched it off, then set his comm link to emergency-messages-only and removed the sound pick-up from his collar. These things done, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device.

"You know what those guards are going to think?" Vorkosigan said, watching these preparations with amused curiosity.

Illyan blinked, then recalled that Vorbarra Park was famous for its assignations. He stared at Vorkosigan for a dazed moment, then recovered.

"So long as it's not this," he retorted, and switched on the device. There was a faint hum, and the moons' light was dimmer around them. "Portable cone of silence," he explained to Vorkosigan. "We're completely private now."

"Just so."

They walked through a shrubbery and passed a courting couple sitting on one of the benches. Illyan made for the picnic field, a large open space where they could be sure nobody was concealed around them. They sat on the dry grass, worn brown with the summer's use, and Vorkosigan leaned back with a sigh.

"How did you figure it out?" he asked.

"Negri personally trained me in analysis," Illyan said tartly.

"Hah. He wouldn't have you told beforehand." He uncorked his flask again and took a swallow, then passed it to Illyan. "At least you know I'm no hero."

"I don't know what you are," Illyan said honestly. "I believed you were a traitor for a time," he went on after a moment. "I thought it was your plan alone, and that I'd have to arrest you when we returned home. There were a few times when I nearly arrested you on the flagship."

Damnably, Vorkosigan recognised the full depth of his words. "I daresay you'd have managed."

Illyan flushed. "I don't think I could have bluffed you with the nerve disruptor. I'd have had to have stunned you."

"I assure you, I'd prefer to be bluffed."

Illyan gave a short laugh, and they sat in silence. Vorkosigan sipped from his flask and leaned back on one elbow wearily.

"You told Captain Naismith," Illyan said after a while.

Vorkosigan looked up. "She worked it out on her own. But I confirmed it." He took a breath. "I regret lying to you about that."

Illyan gave a noncommittal shrug. He'd known it had been a lie at the time, and he hadn't cared then.

"You don't have to worry about it. I told Ezar, and he agreed it was a good thing." Vorkosigan sighed. "Though it didn't seem to be helping from what I last heard from the Betans. They were still spitting nails. She should have reported it to Betan security by now, surely."

Illyan gave him a blank look.

"I thought if the Betans knew why we'd done it--under the table, of course--it would make it easier to reassure them that they aren't next," Vorkosigan explained. "Or any of our other neighbours. We used to have good relations with the Betans, in Xav's day. They like underdogs better than conquerors, though."

His voice seemed more animated as he laid out the politics for Illyan, or perhaps it was talking about Captain Naismith that had given that hint of life to him. Work and a wife, Illyan thought. That's what Vorkosigan needed.

"God, I hope she hasn't gone in for some kind of heroic silence," Vorkosigan went on. "I didn't want to stain her with this."

"She was involved already," Illyan offered, images of Captain Naismith in Ges Vorrutyer's cabin flashing though his mind.

"Yeah. Fuck." Vorkosigan took another drink, then leaned forward and began to scrape at the grass with his fingers, leaving a bare patch of earth. Then he pulled out a knife Illyan hadn't realised he was carrying. Illyan sat up sharply, wishing he hadn't had that last drink. Vorkosigan passed it hilt-first to him with a slight twisted smile. "I'm too drunk for this," he said. Illyan stared at him, then understood as Vorkosigan pulled at a clump of his hair and held it for Illyan to cut.

There had been a ceremonial burning for the Prince and all the dead of Escobar last week. Illyan had been there. It had been strange to sit quietly at the back whilst Vorkosigan stood at the front and lit the pyre and made a speech, not having to stick close to his elbow. It had been a good speech, too--Illyan suspected Ezar's speechwriters had been involved. It had been the only public appearance Vorkosigan had made since returning from Escobar, and Illyan didn't know how Ezar had coaxed him to do it. Once the ceremony had ended, Vorkosigan had gone back to Vorkosigan Surleau, got drunk and flown his lightflyer around Dendarii gorge for a while. He hadn't managed to do more than clip a wing, but not, Illyan had seen from the report, for want of trying.

Illyan sliced off the clump of hair neatly and then, with a quick glance at Vorkosigan for permission, cut off some of his own. Vorkosigan put them both together on the bare patch of earth, splashed them with his mead and then took an oldfashioned lighter and set it burning. It flamed up at once from the mead, then the hair caught and smouldered, sending up the familiar pungent smell, overlaid with alcohol instead of incense.

The little offering burned down rapidly, embers winking out into the earth. The first time anyone burned an offering on Barrayar, Illyan thought, it was probably a lot more like this than the Imperial ceremony last week. Vorkosigan lay back in the grass, watching it burn to ash.

"Do you think it was worth it, Simon?" he asked quietly. "Tell me the truth. You've seen it all. Was it worth it?"

Illyan plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers. "I worked out of the Residence office since I had this chip put in," he said. "I've seen ... a lot of things there, and heard a lot more. You can't ever know what would have happened, but..." He trailed off, staring at the night sky, searching for words. "I would have followed you," he said at last. "If Serg had inherited, and you had risen against him. I would have broken my oath and joined your revolt. You have spared me that, and I thank you."

Vorkosigan was silent a long time after that. Illyan saw his eyes gleaming wetly in the darkness, and looked away.

*

With all the clearing up from Guillotine over, Illyan found himself stuck at HQ most of the time, doing odd jobs for Negri and catching up on paperwork. And reading the reports on Vorkosigan with growing dread.

His comconsole gave an alerting beep, telling him something had fallen into one of his nets. He called it up, and stared at the screen for a full minute. At last.

He gave the ensign working with him a broad smile that made him sit up in surprise. "Here she is," he said.

"Sir?" his ensign asked politely. Illyan shook himself.

"I need to talk to the commander of security at the Vorbarr Sultana Orbital Station. No, whoever commands all the orbital stations, she might not go to Vorbarr Sultana. Get him on the comm for me at once."

"Yes, sir."

Illyan reviewed the data whilst he waited. There she was, travelling openly on her Betan passport, on a commercial flight from Komarr. There were a lot of red flags against her name, indications that when she reached Barrayaran orbit she would find the border guard waiting for her.

"Barrayar orbital stations security chief on the comm for you, sir," the ensign said.

"Thank you." Illyan opened his comconsole. "Good afternoon," he said politely to the middle-aged man who appeared on the viewscreen.

"Good afternoon," the chief replied in an extremely anxious voice. "How may I help you, sir?"

Being sirred by men like this was one of the little perks of the Horus-eyes on his collar. Illyan gave a biting smile, because he was in a good mood.

"There will be a passenger arriving from Komarr on the _River Queen_. A Betan woman. She is flagged to be arrested at the planetary border. I want her to go through. No questions, no searches, no trouble at all. We need her to get downside without a hitch." He pressed a button on his console. "I'm sending you her personal data. Grease her through immigration however you like, just make sure she gets here. Notify me personally when you have her on a shuttle downside; I'll be escorting her onwards. And don't give her any sign that you're letting her pass. Treat her exactly like an ordinary passenger with all papers in order."

The security chief stared at the records Illyan had sent. "But--sir, this says she's a wanted criminal. Murder, espionage, assault on--"

"I've read her file, thank you," Illyan said in a hard voice. "But you should forget you saw it. She is to arrive here without any trouble. Is that understood?"

The security chief was a man of principle, Illyan granted. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, in a strained voice. "I can't do that without authorisation from someone more senior."

"Is that so?" Illyan muttered. "Very well. We'll be in touch presently." He cut the comm. "Damn," he muttered. "Can you get me a chance to talk to Captain Negri?"

The ensign nodded and began to speak into his comm link. A few minutes later he said, "Captain Negri, sir," and Negri's face appeared on Illyan's display.

"Yes?" Negri said sternly. "What do you have for me?"

"Cordelia Naismith," Illyan answered succinctly. "Vorkosigan's Betan, sir. She's on her way here. I asked the chief of orbital security to grease her through immigration, but he's having an outbreak of conscience and wants someone senior to authorise it."

"Ah," said Negri. "Vorkosigan's Betan, indeed. I've been expecting her."

There was a pleased smile at the corner of Negri's mouth that prompted Illyan to ask, "What did we have to do with this, sir?"

"I barely had to do a thing," Negri said. "A few extra messages in our coded traffic--the coded traffic we know the Betans have broken, naturally. A modest deposit in a Jacksonian bank account in her name. Betan security did the rest for us. And Naismith herself." He shook his head. "Wouldn't have her as a spy even if she volunteered. Girl has no idea how to keep her head down and her eyes open. I hope she lives up to your expectations here."

"I think she will, sir."

"Good. I'll contact your security fellow and put the fear of God into him. You make sure she gets the rest of the way."

"Yes, sir." Illyan was already reviewing the flight schedule on his console. In the back of his mind, images were flashing over his chip from the previous week. Vorkosigan had made another suicide attempt, crashing his lightflyer drunk in the Dendarii gorge. Illyan had attached himself to the detail again that night, in the pursuing flyer, his heart in his mouth. Whatever gods or saints or ancestral spirits guarded the very drunk Illyan didn't know, but Vorkosigan had been dragged limp from the splintered and burning wreckage with barely a bruise on him, and had crowned the evening by vomiting on Illyan's boots. Illyan would be more than happy to hand him over to Captain Naismith. If he could just keep the damned fool alive long enough for her to get here.

*

He was at the wedding somewhat accidentally, since he'd tailed Captain Naismith to Vorkosigan Surleau personally and stayed to attach himself to the security detail there for a few days. Negri had made that strange grimace that might have been a smile, and given him permission to stay and keep an eye on them both. Vorkosigan didn't look healed as he spoke his oath to Captain Naismith, but he did look as though he'd stopped spiralling downwards and begun to climb out again. As the newlyweds settled down to a quiet domestic routine, and Vorkosigan drank no more than a glass of wine with his meals and lost his haggard look, Illyan felt a tension in him begin to ease at last. He returned to HQ and his work, and no longer held his breath as he read the reports from Vorkosigan's detail.

A few weeks after the wedding, Negri summoned Illyan to his office. When he entered, he found Negri still apparently immersed in his paperwork. He addressed a few inconsequential remarks to Illyan, who waited patiently. Squaring off a stack of flimsies, Negri looked up at Illyan at last.

"Lord Vorkosigan is going to be Regent," he announced.

Illyan nodded and said nothing. It was not a surprise. He'd run through the candidates himself and had seen that Vorkosigan was far and away the best. Even drunk and suicidal Vorkosigan had outshone the others on the list; now he was undeniably the only choice. The only catch would be Vorkosigan's willingness to accept, but if Negri had got him...

"He doesn't know it yet, naturally," Negri added, and Illyan choked.

"You think he won't accept?" Negri frowned at him. "I believe you know him better than I do now. He must take this job. Have you any suggestions?"

"Lady Vorkosigan," Illyan said at once. "If you can get her to accept the idea, there won't be a problem."

Negri nodded slowly. "His Captain, I believe he calls her. And so the Admiral obeys his Captain, does he? How interesting. Thank you, Commander." For a few moments Negri gazed into space.

"Now for you." A stern expression crossed his face. "Don't think I haven't noticed how this Escobar business has changed you. I suppose it is the natural order of things that you should transfer your loyalty from the old to the new, even before Ezar dies." Illyan wondered if he had imagined the sudden flick of pain in Negri's voice. "I plan to make the most of it. You will have command of the Regent's personal security and will be his liaison with ImpSec."

Illyan could not prevent a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he heard this.

"Ah, I thought that would suit you. I know what I can see, Simon. You're no man of mine any longer, if you ever were. Since that's the result I wanted when I set you to watch Vorkosigan, I can't complain. You'll serve him well."

Illyan thought he saw a faint sadness on the face of his old mentor. "Sir, I've always been your--"

"Don't bullshit me. I know you better than you do yourself. You respect me, no doubt, but you'll dance barefoot on broken glass for Vorkosigan. He'll need you to, and that's how I wish it. When he is Regent you will be responsible for his life, and you'll suit him much better than I will. The days of us old pirates are numbered now."

Since that agreed rather too neatly with Illyan's own analysis, he could do nothing but nod.

"I know times are changing. Dammit, I've made them change. You New Men will have to live in them. I hope you find it to your taste. I'm sure in twenty years ImpSec will look totally different."

Imagining ImpSec without Negri in charge was like imagining the Great Square without the statue of Dorca the Just. Illyan could not even begin to picture the Service without him, nor see how any other man could hold the reins of each of the wildly diverse men in ImpSec.

"Don't stare at me like a goggle-eyed cadet. You have your orders, off you go. Go start planning for your new master. You know what to do."

"Yes, sir." Illyan stood, then took the liberty boldly. "Thank you."

"Hah. You're welcome to it."

*

Ezar's health failed further, but Illyan heard nothing more of Vorkosigan's projected role in the government until several weeks had passed. Then, just as he'd been heading off-duty one evening, Negri called him.

"Got him at last," he said. "Ezar brought him round. And Lady Vorkosigan, like you said. Report to us at the Residence now, and bring your work."

Illyan hurried to obey, his heart light despite the difficult nature of the work. He'd been through the full threat assessment to Vorkosigan, studying everyone who already hated him--most Komarrans, the numerous planets where he was on lists of wanted criminals, his political enemies amongst the Counts, assorted revolutionary and radical parties, the last remnants of Grishnov's War Party--and he knew that when Vorkosigan became Regent that list was going to get approximately a hundred times longer. And Lady Vorkosigan introduced her own complications with the Betans--he had seen the full story now of how Captain Naismith had reached Barrayar and had been both disturbed and entirely unsurprised--not to mention the domestic dislike of seeing the Hero of Escobar partnered with the woman who had, at least in the public record, killed the Admiral. And that was just the start.

He found Vorkosigan and his wife with Negri in an antechamber. The Prime Minister must be around somewhere too, for Illyan spotted the captain of his personal guard lurking in the shadows.

Vorkosigan looked round as he entered. "Hello, Simon. Can't get rid of you, can I?" He grinned, belying his words.

"I hope not, sir."

"Ah well. I'm used to having you around now, and since it seems I'm going to need a nanny again…" He came over and extended a hand. "I'll be glad to have you watching my back."

Illyan shook his hand. It was the greeting of equals, but Illyan could almost feel Vorkosigan's other hand closed around his as they had the day Vorrutyer had died. He felt their pull on him like an anchor to his ship, like magnetic north to his steel, turning him to face the right direction. The direction he was meant to face.

At Escobar, Vorkosigan had been impressive, a man who could draw even a cool-headed spy like Illyan into his orbit. Now, meeting Vorkosigan's eye, Illyan realised he had only seen a shadow before. Vorkosigan was moving forward on his own now, no longer dragged under the wheels of Ezar's soul-crushing plot, and Illyan knew that if Vorkosigan's first order to him was to leap from the top of the Star Bridge and fly down, he'd do it without a blink.

"It's an honour, sir," he said, and meant it. He made a little bow to Lady Vorkosigan. "My lady." She gave him an amused look in return, evidently still adjusting to the title. Count Vortala joined them, and Vorkosigan looked around.

"All right," Vorkosigan said slowly, his eyes moving from face to face. "Let's get started."

Illyan could feel the change in the room as Vorkosigan straightened, the way everyone's body language began to mirror his as the focus of power settled on him. Vorkosigan opened the door to the briefing room and held it for his wife, then went in. With a smile, Illyan followed at his heels.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Drabble: Aral Vorkosigan's Spy.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/241703) by [Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels)
  * [Benediction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/272256) by [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha)
  * [Пес Эйрела Форкосигана](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448942) by [jetta_e_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetta_e_rus/pseuds/jetta_e_rus)




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